Not What He Expected
by Boom Dead
Summary: A story of progression, not instant gratification. All I can say is that this time, Charon isn't a softie, and the LW isn't stupid, just naive and seemingly out of touch with the world. Don't expect any romance too soon. Charon x LW
1. Prologue

**AN: **I promise, I didn't mean to just make a story so stereotypically about Charon and the Lone Wanderer. I had a bigger story in the works, but I lost it and need to rework it. Maybe when I get that one posted, I can weave them together in some weird way. Plus, there will be weird plot devices to get this story in a good curve, since I was planning to make this separate from my main one.

* * *

**|Prologue|**

"_Shit_, Vault Gal!" Three Dog stood up faster than he could comprehend from his desk, holding his arms out wide. The girl in front of him smiled sheepishly, her face turning red. "You did it! You fucking did it!"

"Well, you needed my help, so, I was obliged to-"

"You don't need to explain yourself, girlie. Three Dog's _fine_ without one." He came up to her and gave her a firm pat on the back, and she stumbled a bit out of surprise. He hardly knew her personally, but he was proud of her and honored to have the girl in his studio anyways. She was just like her father, he could tell. Talking to her, well, was like talking to James. Both of them almost idiotically determined to follow their goals. His, some sort of experiment he abandoned nineteen years ago. Hers, simply finding the man. "Here, sit down, you must be fucking _exhausted_."

The girl gladly fell on a chair after making sure it was cushioned. He crossed his arms and smiled down at her, before pulling up a chair of his own, "Now, you gotta tell me, how was it down in the Mall? I know we've got _some_ brothers down guarding the Washington Monument, but that's _it_."

She blushed and smiled slightly, leaning back a bit, "Oh, it was_ terrible_, Three Dog. I don't know how I do it sometimes, those green guys... super mutants?, were entrenched as far as the eye could see." He nodded, a huge grin on his face. No matter how much she would complain, she still managed to survive it all anyways. "I mean, I was lucky I knew how to handle them from a distance. If it weren't for this beat up old rifle, I would have had to risk _sneaking_ past the brutes." This was his cue. He reached in his pocket and pressed the record button on a tape recorder he kept on hand at all times. A little doohicky he scoured from GNR when he first set up in the place. With the help of a Brotherhood of Steel member, he had managed to get it operational again. The best part was that the tape had still been intact, probably due to the radiation from the bombs in the war that had pseudo preserved it.

"How, how did you even find out how to _kill_ the bastards? I mean, you're a fucking _Vaultie_! You were blinded like a newborn in a hospital ward when you stepped out from that hole in the ground, you didn't even know what the fuck those things were, yet you managed to find yourself in the depths of the ruins looking for a damned antennae relay. How did you manage?"

"Well, I mean..." she had been taken surprise by the onslaught of questions. "It's all thanks to my father. He gave me a BB gun for my tenth birthday and I used to shoot radroaches with it. We had a little shooting range set up in storage in the vault." She took a glance at the hunting rifle near her chair. "I found this busted up thing in Springvale and, well, with a little help from Sheriff Simms, I managed to transfer my nine years of BB gun practice to an actual rifle. And it just sorta escalated from there."

Three Dog smiled; he was still brimming with questions, and the tape was already getting great info. "But how did you figure out how to _kill_ Muties? How to handle raider skirmishes and feral attacks?"

Her face blanked. "Um... well, I got a lot of practice up in Big Town, when my Pip Boy malfunctioned and sent me north instead of east, and I only ran into a couple of raiders and a few of those feral things you talk about. I guess the bad guys were taking a break when I went to the Mall. As scary as it was, there were hardly any super mutants around, too. They didn't even notice me when I snagged the relay." She stopped and thought for a moment, "but, I _did_ leave here at the beginning of night, and got back early morning. And the ferals died due to a gas explosion, and the raiders weren't patrolling, and, well, yeah. I just guess I got a lucky streak, huh?"

That embarrassed smile reared up again. Fucking lucky indeed. "Now, I agree, that was _damn fucking lucky_. You've managed to course through the wastes without a hitch so far. But _now_, things may be different. The raiders listen to Galaxy News; I can't help it. They're probably gonna start looking for you when they get news that _you've_ been a little _vigilante_ for us. They hate good people, of course." He frowned at the sudden image of a raider cornering the poor girl that arose in his head. "And the super mutants aren't too dumb. They understand language, and they go into overdrive when they realize their ranks have been cut down. The _longer_ you're out here helping us, the _harder_ it'll get, Missy."

"So, so, how do you propose I _survive_ all of this?" She had a look of fear on her face. He was right; she had only hit a lucky streak.

"I'd say find a partner, or a bodyguard, or _something_. Being a lone wanderer isn't a smart idea in the wastes, you know. You gotta have backup. You're hardly experienced." Three Dog suddenly liked the sound of Lone Wanderer. Too bad this girl wasn't strong enough to achieve that title yet. But he would keep it in mind; he had a prediction that she'd definitely be a good story to follow.

"Where could I find someone to help me?"

"Hm... There's probably plenty of people in main settlements that can help you. Rivet City, where your dad went, might have someone willing, possibly. It'll be hard getting a person to risk their lives with you, though. Go back through the Mall and find the subway that'll lead you to Rivet City. Your computer thing should help you with that. I'd suggest taking a rest stop at Underworld though, in the Natural History Museum." Half way through his speech the girl started to poke furiously at her computer thing. Probably recording everything he said. "The place is a safe haven from the Muties; you'll be good to spend a night there. Just don't cause a ruckus, those people there are antsy around people who, well, have _normal_ skin." She nodded whilst poking at the computer. He hoped she was actually listening. "I doubt the ghouls there will want to help you, so that's why it's best to check Rivet City instead."

She looked up, smiling, and stood, "thanks a lot, Three Dog. I'll do exactly what you said, and hopefully dad will, well, be there." She held out her hand; a shake.

Three Dog stood up as well and took her hand. "Be careful girlie, I hope you find James. Make sure to update us about how you're doing when you can, okay? Oh, and don't forget about that weapons stash you've got the key to."

"Oh I definitely won't forget about that. And I'll try as hard as I can to keep in touch, but for now, goodbye, Three Dog."

He watched her practically run out of the room. For some reason, he knew she'd be fine. But in the meantime, he needed to get the scoop on what, exactly, she did in Big Town. Something inside him told him she did more than a little target practice.


	2. Smoothskin

**AN:** Merry Christmas Eve and Christmas. Screw being politically correct. But, to be nice, I'll say Happy Hanukkah and such. Of course, Charon steps into the fray and we finally get a name for our LW. And yeah, Charon isn't a softie. I based his personality off of his years of being under contract with various people, and the fact if you're evil in the game and you fire him he might shoot you on the spot. Or so I've heard. HNG on with the reading.

* * *

**|Chapter One - Smoothskin|**

Out of the corner of his eyes, he watched the double doors to the Ninth Circle creak open on their rusted hinges. Another ghoul down on their luck, most likely. They often buzzed around his employer like flies, throwing their caps down and drinking themselves into regretful oblivion, his employer only grinning and shoveling their caps away, encouraging them to "ease their suffering" with more centuries-old booze.

Yet, the hands pushing the doors open weren't covered with dried, flaked-off skin or bright red, hardened muscle. Neither were their arms, or neck or face. A scowl erupted on his chapped and cracked lips. A _smoothskin_. A female at that, wandering into his employer's bar, showing off her _normality_. Her skin proved the fact her family, or herself for that matter, was never tainted by the nuclear fallout back in 2077. That she was at a social hierarchy much higher than the ghouls were. He hated smoothskins.

The smoothskin gazed around the bar as she entered, and he frowned again. A .32 hunting rifle was slung on her back. Girl didn't have the decency to leave her weapons in the room she was most likely renting at Carol's. Just _had_ to carry around a weapon. Show the ghouls _she's_ the one in charge, he bet. Smoothskins always had the knack to boast their superiority and disgust for the ghouls at the same time. Deep in her core, she was probably terrified of Underworld. The city of ghouls. City of _monsters_. Her hatred and bigotry probably scared her stiff that the ghouls would eat her pretty little smoothskin face.

His employer would have called her over to his bar if he wasn't busy rinsing off shot glasses. Would have distracted her from prodding around the place and causing the customers to cast a suspicious eye in her direction. He leaned against the wall behind him and crossed his legs, looking upon the small smoothskin with utter contempt in his eyes. She turned from a ghoul sitting at a small table and looked straight at him. He would have scowled, if he were allowed to. The girl walked right up to him, and he held his breath, waiting for her to spout typical smoothskin _bullshit_.

"Hello," she said carefully, looking up at him and holding out a pale hand. A slight smile was on her face. He didn't care to look at it for long.

"Talk to Ahzrukhal," he grunted, jerking his head in the direction of his employer at the bar. He noticed the man was eyeing them curiously, a seedy smirk on his flaked face. The smoothskin looked taken aback.

"But I..."

"I don't care. Talk. To. Ahzrukhal." He shifted his eyes away and leaned his head back from looking down at her. Common body language telling her to leave him the hell alone. Very effective. She kept looking up at him for a moment, a quizzical look on her face, and then she turned to the bar. As she sat down, Ahzrukhal did his typical greeting of slamming his hands flat on the bar and grinning down at her, a maliciously soft look in his eyes. He hoped his employer would squeeze her dry of her caps.

* * *

"Oh, oh my. I don't think I've ever seen _you_ before. Got us a new smoothskin, don't we?" The ghoul at the bar flashed a smile. "I'm Ahzrukhal. And you're sitting straight in the center of my lovely Ninth Circle." He nodded towards a patron sitting across the room. "Folks got problems, ya see? So, I sell 'em my liquor, and a... few _other_ pick me ups, get them feelin' all nice and warm inside. Just let me know if you need anything, I'll be," he cleared his throat loudly, "_glad_ to help."

She smiled a little bit. The ghoul was ok, she supposed. Strange... but ok, "Pleasure to meet you, Mister Ahzrukhal. My name is Alma. Her thoughts turned to the ghoul in the corner of the room. Mister Ahzrukhal... I was wondering, who is that in the corner? I tried to talk to him and, well..." The ghoul grinned and stood up straight, grabbing a shot glass recently left over from a customer and turning to the sink. He turned his head over his shoulder.

"Oh, him? That's Charon. A... particularly faithful, _loyal_ employee." His tone seemed suspicious and she cocked an eyebrow.

"Loyal? What do you imply by that, Mister Ahzrukhal?" The grin never left his face.

"You see, I hold Charon's employment contract." The sound of rushing water rose from the metal sink. "And, he's so bound to that contract, that whoever holds it can ask him to do whatever, whenever, and never have to hear _any_ protest. He's the best thug a corrupt bartender could have." He wheezed loudly and bent to cough up something black into the sink. Alma grimaced at the sight. "When Charon was a tyke, you know, he grew up with quite an interesting group of individuals. You... could say they completely _brainwashed_ the kid. Made him loyal to whoever holds that piece of paper. Unfasing, unflinching. Of course, until the day that employment ends." The ghoul placed the shot glass upside down on a rack above the sink and turned back around, tucking the washrag he used under the counter. "But, don't get me wrong. I'm sure he wants nothing _more_ than to wring my neck. Yet as long as I hold his contract, he's as gentle as a teddy bear."

Alma nodded, chancing a glance back at Charon. The ghoul was looking straight at her. She turned around quickly. "So... you would say he's a good, uh, _shot_, right?" She suddenly realized that it was a strange question to ask out of the blue. "I mean, because I see that he has that shotgun on his back, I would figure..."

Ahzrukhal laughed, nodding his head and coughing a tad. "Oh yes, yes. Charon is the most _lethal_ ghoul ever created. He's particularly deadly with that shotgun of his you saw. Can't tell you how many times I'd have him use a little shotgun diplomacy to settle some transactions gone... _sour_." He crossed his arms, making the expression of bending an eyebrow, his grin still plastered on his lips. "Why do you ask?"

"Well... seeing as how the Wastes are pretty harsh..." she mumbled almost incoherently. Ahzrukhal bent forward some, looking straight into her eyes. She reared her head back slightly, surprised, and decided to swallow her sheepishness. "I've had a rough time making it to here, Mister Ahzrukhal. I haven't been out in the Wastes very long, and I was just wondering, maybe..."

* * *

"Charon, I need to talk to you."

He grimaced at hearing the smoothskin's voice. She had her arms crossed and a testy look in her eyes.

"Talk to-"

"About that. Ahzrukhal? He's not your employer anymore." She said with a hint of triumph.

"What do you mean; he's not my employer anymore? Ahzrukhal has my..." A paper flew out of her pocket and she held it up to him. It was his contract. Amidst the plethora of previous employers' names on the ancient document, he found the name Ahzrukhal. It was crossed out. Underneath it, the name Alma Adler was written in perfect cursive, outshining the measly scrawls. "So... you're my employer now? That's... that's good to know." The smoothskin only nodded, carefully folding up his contract and tucking it into her pocket again. He felt a sudden wave of both hatred and joy. Hatred that he was now under the control of a smoothskin. Joy that he was rid of that foul asshole ghoul. "Excuse me... I need to tie up a few loose ends," he grumbled, and she stepped aside to let him by.

Charon bit hard on his teeth as he strode carefully to Ahzrukhal. He had watched them the whole time, and smirked that malevolent little smirk of his as Charon came closer. "I already know what you're going to ask, Charon. You're no longer mine." He stood up from leaning on the bar, crossing his arms and following him with his eyes as Charon rounded the bar. "The little smoothskin girl paid a pretty penny for your _contract_, and I just couldn't refuse." He leaned against the counter, arms folded and listening to his former employer's rant. "And, she said she's going into the wastes. It'll be like a breath of fresh air for you. Fresh,_ irradiated_ air." He felt his fists clench. "It's not a big deal for me. I can have Quinn or perhaps that washed up old Crowley help look over the bar. I'm sure you'll enjoy being with the girl. Perhaps, if you're _lucky_, she'll die and you'll be a free man. Yet... I'm sure you just can't let that happen, now can you?" Ahzrukhal laughed at the irony, before stopping to hack up some more phlegm. "Ah, in any case, this is _exhilarating_... Oh, don't stare at me like that. Is _that_ how you're going to say goodbye to your kind old boss?" A daring smirk arose on the ghoul's face, mocking him.

"_Actually_..." he slung his shotgun from his back, "I think this goodbye will suit the _both_ of us." And, with only one hand, he pulled the trigger right in Ahzrukhal's now horrified face. The blast of the gun reverberated in the bar as blood seemingly exploded from Ahzrukhal's head. Or, what was left of it. Half of his skull was gone, and his body slumped to the floor, a dull thud resounding on the marble and blood spattering all over the cabinets and walls. Charon cocked the shotgun and set it back, turning to the smoothskin and watching her rush up to him.

"Charon! What the hell did you-" she started to yell in a panic, and he held up a hand, a scowl hidden in his grim expression.

"Ahzrukhal was the dirtiest, most disgusting employer I ever had the misfortune of being employed to. He was an evil man; he deserved his death. But, I suggest we leave. _Now_." She quieted, looking into his clouded gray eyes and searching them for a moment. The smoothskin soon nodded her head and turned, and they ran out the old double doors of the Ninth Circle. The commotion and apparent shock of Ahzrukhal's execution followed them as the heavy wooden doors took their time swinging back into place.


	3. Wishful Thinking

**AN:** Here's one of those bullshit plot devices to help connect my story to being an actual, plausible story. I'm not gonna lie, this was made on the spot for the purpose of making the later chapters make more sense.

* * *

**|Chapter Two - Wishful Thinking|**

Alma ran with Charon directly behind her to the entrance of Underworld. Right outside its doors she would be greeted with the awe-inspiring tyrannosaurus rex skeleton before running past the lobby and into the grand stretch of the Mall. But her hands stopped pushing on the doors when she realized she left her other equipment at Carol's. She wanted to smack herself, but then she realized they wouldn't be running in the first place if Charon hadn't killed Ahzrukhal. Yet now wasn't the time to reprimand her new companion.

"Charon, could you please wait outside the door for me? I need to run back to Carol's _real_ quick to get all my things." He only replied with a nod, and she could hear him grumbling to himself as he pushed through the doors. He sure had an attitude on him, that was for sure. Or maybe he was just annoyed she had to get her bag. She would understand his frustration. She was getting frustrated herself for running back up the stairs and pondering her bodyguard's feelings instead of focusing on running through Carol's to her room and gathering her stuff. In fact, she was afraid she scared the woman when she barreled through the doors looking both scared and deathly serious.

"Um, hello Miss Adler, are you all right? I heard a huge bang and Greta said a couple people came rushing in and that there was all this commotion in the Ninth Circle. You're fine, right?" Carol asked, waving Alma over to her desk. Alma quickly dropped her expression and sighed, smiling as she trotted up to the desk.

"Ah, yes, I'm fine, Carol." Alma leaned on the desk, her elbows braced on it and holding her head up. "It seems I'll be checking out early. I'll go grab my bag and you'll have that room open for business as soon as I'm out the door." Before she stood up straight, she looked hard into the slightly confused woman's eyes. "Oh, and _please_ don't be mad at me for whatever you may hear from the people here. We didn't mean to cause any possible trouble." Alma turned and sprinted to her room, and she heard Carol back in the lobby calling after her about what she meant.

Her bag, well, it wasn't too full. She had sold off a great deal of junk to Tulip, the eccentric girl saying that it would keep her busy to mess with the items. She had needed the money for her journey, but ended up using it to buy Charon's contract. She was sure she made a good investment, though. Charon... did seem _very_ capable with his shotgun. She ran her hands through the pocket in her bag that held all of her caps. Still partially empty. After all, those strings of bottle caps she had with her had been exchanged for Charon. She felt lucky that at least the obnoxious things came in denominations. Black was worth one whole dollar, as she put it. Green was five dollars, blue was ten, red was twenty, gold was fifty, and silver was a hundred. Once again she had to thank Simms from Megaton for lecturing her on how to organize caps. Though why silver caps were higher in worth than gold ones, she wasn't sure. She just felt lucky she managed to have ten of the shiny bottle caps to pay for that contract. Now all she had left were a few blacks, two greens and one red. Thirty three dollars, in comparison.

Alma felt in the second, larger pocket for her supply of food and drink. A few bottles of purified water Walter from Megaton had been kind enough to give her, five bottles of dirty water she planned to boil and wash her clothes in and to wash herself, a couple bars of soap she found in a wardrobe in Springvale (she immediately moved the soap and dirty water into the caps pocket to keep it from spoiling her food), and a few packs of noodles she could boil as well. Low on food. It was okay, she didn't find herself too particularly excited to eat the food she often found in the hands of residents of Underworld and Megaton. Her tastes were still considerably refined from her life at the Vault. She would stick with noodles until she was adventurous enough to eat wasteland food.

The pocket opposite that was filled with ammo for her precious .32. And a lot of spare parts, in case her rifle broke. She wasn't a genius at gun repair, so she hoped Charon could manage. There was also a few screwdrivers and a pack of bobby pins. Amata had given her those. She hardly, if ever, used them like she was told to. She saved the pins for her hair and the screwdrivers for prying open containers and the like. Simply, she hadn't happened upon anything that needed to be picked. Yet she had a desire to lock pick at least _something_. Perhaps a footlocker. She felt that the skill was essential, on par with gun repair.

The smaller pocket on that one was filled with bandages and band aids, cotton swabs, a couple small bottles of antiseptic she took from her father's desk in the Vault, and a few of those stimpaks. She didn't particularly enjoy stimpaks. Maybe everyone else in the world did, but the idea of just stabbing them into herself so ruthlessly as advised by Simms didn't suit her. Yet she knew she would need them, her dad once told her how they were like the ambrosia of medicine.

The main pocket had her junk, her sketchbook and pencils, her strips of clothing she found to replace bandages if needed, etcetera, "Alright, I have everything, okay. Now, time to leave." She practically ran past Greta and Carol, "Goodbye you two; thank you for having me!" Yet she slowed when she heard them ask about Megaton. A soft smile arose on her lips as she backed out the doors. "Yes, yes, I'll tell him."

* * *

Charon heard his new employer call for him as she came into the lobby, and apologize when she realized she didn't see him by the door when she came out. He only grunted and watched her flounder in her own awkwardness. Eventually, the girl decided to leave, and he followed, fingers itching to pull the trigger on her, but never listening to them. He was under contract, after all.

Outside of the museum, they were greeted with a grenade exploding underneath them at the entrance to the metro. The girl had jumped in fright, and he wanted to smack her for being so childish. The guardswoman, Willow, had emerged from the metro stairs, waving at the both of them. When his employer talked to the ghoul, she said that a band of raiders had set up camp in the metro below. He inwardly smiled at his employer's disappointment at the news. For some reason, she wanted to go through that dank, dark tunnel system to reach Rivet City. The smoothskin turned to him.

"Well, I don't think we're ready, to um, go down there. We'll have to go around outer D.C. and follow the Potomac to find Rivet City." He didn't say a word, only stared down at her. She averted her eyes and turned to face away from him; he had bothered her. "But first, we should backtrack through these metros I came through. They're really empty, I'm sure there's nothing in them, and on my map it says we can do a complete loop through them to this place called Friendship Heights. That will then put us on a straightaway to Megaton." The smoothskin looked back up at him. "I have a pretty strong feeling that taking the Potomac will be hard to do, so that's why we're going to Megaton first to get ready."

He wanted to ask why they wouldn't go through to Farragut, since it was the closest tunnel to Megaton. But he couldn't, and he knew if he could, she would likely come up with some bullshit excuse. Most smoothskins were like that anyway, and he had a feeling she was too. Maybe she would indeed die on the way. He wouldn't let it happen with all of his abilities, as his contract promised, but possibly, just maybe, they'd find a raider with a scope. It was wishful thinking, but he enjoyed the idea of getting the bitch off of his hands. She smiled up at him, and he smiled in his mind at her lack of awareness that he'd rather see her _dead_.


	4. Perception

**AN:** Happy New Year! I kind of submitted this late because certain family members wouldn't let me leave the little New Years celebration, but here it is. Obviously, lots of interaction between the two. I think my AN's will probably always be on every chapter, so get used to it.

* * *

**|Chapter Three - Perception|**

The DC ruins seemed to crackle and groan on their own. Gunshots and explosions echoed throughout the maze of the decimated city, bouncing off the crumbling stone walls of the buildings of the civilized past. Distant growls of vicious, rabid dogs emerged from alleyways and the occasional shriek of a feral ghoul bubbled forth from the depths of the metro. The sights and sounds of the ruins were oddly comforting, since moments before all that could be seen were dark, dank metro tunnels and destroyed trains.

"Hey, Charon, we should set up camp here." The voice of the smoothskin rang out from his right. He turned his eyes away from the sunset glowing in front of the entrance to the metro they exited and up to the girl. She was pulling a fission battery from the dilapidated carapace of a Protectron on the curb of the street, tucking the hunk of metal into her bag. "The sun is getting low, and after clearing out the raiders in that little square behind you, it seems like a nice place to rest for a night." The smoothskin pulled the bag on her back and nodded to the area behind him.

"In the _middle_ of the ruins? Are you _sure_ you want this?" The_ last_ thing he wanted was a surprise attack from a group of super mutants in the dead of night. This smoothskin had no idea what the _hell_ she was talking about.

"Yes, yes, I'm sure," she sighed, giving him an exhausted look. Inside, he just scoffed at her and her inexperience. "Come on then, their bodies are going to stink up the campsite if we don't 'throw them to the dogs', per-se." The girl was the first to head off to the encampment directly behind them, Charon grumbling to himself and standing up, quickly rolling his head left and right and popping the vertebrae in his neck. The sound was loud enough for the smoothskin to falter in front of him, and she turned, an annoyed look on her pale face. "Hey, that? Yeah, don't do that, ok? It's gross," she commanded with a disgusted frown on her face, and he nodded, sliding his eyes to look at an interesting bullet hole in a window while she turned back to the camp.

Luckily for them, the raiders had all run outside of the encampment during the battle, and their carcasses littered the entrance. And it ended up that even though the smoothskin wanted to help, she wasn't of much use. He had been left to carry the majority of the bodies out and across the broken street to a set of dumpsters in an empty lot, the girl faltering behind and simply dragging one raider at a time by their legs to the dumpsters. She couldn't lift them, obviously, so he had to stay close by whenever she brought a corpse to the big metal bins and heft them in for her. Throughout the clean up, she apologized over and over that she couldn't do as much as he could, saying it was unfair, or some shit like that. Of course he didn't give a damn about it; she was at least a head and a half shorter than him, so he didn't see the point in her apologizing for something she naturally couldn't do.

When they had finished hiding the bodies and stripping them of their meager ammo supplies, they had turned back to the camp. Behind the plywood and metal sheeting that guarded the entrance to the enclosed space was a setup that was surprisingly clean for a raider encampment. As he looked around the area, there were no hints of picked-clean bones of mole rats or bloody corpses strung about the place. Spilled blood was dry and stained on the stone flooring near the entrance, reasonable enough. Whatever the raiders had been doing there, they had been unusually meticulous about their encampment being free of bones, blood, and other bodily fluids and tissues. Of course, he realized maybe they had smartened up and kept their camp from smelling like a _feeding ground_ for super mutants, centaurs, ferals, and the occasional man-eating dog. The smoothskin herself had commented on the rationale of the raiders keeping their space neat and tidy, with the same logic he thought to himself. She wandered to an old table and pressed a finger to a hunk of white, fleshy meat on a plate. Next to it sat a huge black and blue claw, a fork jammed in the shell and small amounts of the flesh still inside. Mirelurk.

"Cold and wet. Smells fresh, too. They must have returned from hunting for food," she said, lifting her digit away and shaking it a couple of times to remove any residue from her finger. Delicately, with a strange sort of grace akin to a hoity-toity smoothskin, she pulled the fork out of the claw, shook off the residue, and took a bite of the meat resting on the plate. He couldn't see the girl's face, but could tell she was disgusted by the food, her shoulders visibly cringing. Prissy little human. "I... need to get used to _that_ taste..." she muttered, setting the fork on the plate. The girl, his employer, stood straight and scanned the table and counters close to it, her eyes catching on the radio tucked a bit high up on the shelf. It was turned off. She walked up to it and reached to turn the radio on, but she was too short, the knob just barely out of her reach. The girl turned to Charon, and he hid his grimace that he had been having since she tasted the mirelurk. "Charon, would you please turn this on for me? You're a lot taller than I am." He grunted, nodding his head, and hastily reached for it and flicked it on.

**- HEEELLOOOO, CAPITAL WASTELAND! It is I, Three Dog, OWWWW! -**

GNR blared from the radio, and the ghoul cringed slightly, the noise blasting into his ears. He turned down the volume enough to keep it from echoing, knowing damn well the girl wasn't going to ask for him to and end up getting them jumped. Smelling dead bodies was one thing, but hearing fresh meat would send the predators in the ruins reeling. He looked at his employer and saw a hint of a smile playing across her face as she looked at the radio.

**- Hey there folks, are ya still dancing a jig that the signal's back? 'Cuz _I_ sure as hell am! Once again, thank _Little Miss Vaultie_ for getting that antennae relay going so our broadcast can stretch as far as that noise from the _Enclave_ can. -**

The smoothskin's smile widened at the news and she turned, heading off to the large tent on the other side of the encampment, "I'm going to check in here for any stuff we may need, Charon. You can stay there if you like." He sighed and plopped himself down on a bar stool, folding his arms on the counter and looking up at the radio. The girl liked to listen to that crazy smoothskin rant about goings-on in the wastes. Just like Ahzrukhal, always blasting the radio in the Ninth Circle. How _precious_.

**- Now, listen up, kiddies! I've got some news reports from the settlement known as Big Town that _Miss Vault Gal _had helped them out with one _hell_ of a mess. Ya see, before, these poor kids were holed up in this _shitstain_ of a settlement, left alone to defend themselves from all the assholes the wasteland launched at them, fooled into thinking this "_Big Town_" was a haven. Luckily enough, _Vaultie_ stepped into the fray and, not only rescued a couple of their own from Super Mutants in Germantown, but also taught them how to put a bullet through some Mutie skulls! Nice going, kid, hopefully we'll see more _dazzling_ feats from ya. -**

Charon groaned at the news. It wasn't that he disliked people helping others. It was only that whoever this Vault girl was, she sounded like some sort of stuck-up smoothskin saint, the way Three Dog talked about it. Help the other smoothskins all she wants, he knew she'd give him that disgusting look of horror as soon as she'd set eyes on him. Or any ghoul, for that matter. Just then, he saw his employer step out from the dark tent, a grin on her face.

**- But alas, children, as much as I'd _love_ to keep praising Little Miss Vault Dweller, I'm sure you're _itching_ for some music. So, here it comes. -**

Familiar piano keys tinkling out an upbeat tune played through the air, and soon enough a chorus of female voices began to belt out their story of a missionary talking with savages to move to the city, from some place with 'bamboo trees'. The smoothskin looked up at Charon, nodding her head to the radio.

"What's the name of that song again? It's one of my favorites."

"Civilization," Charon answered gruffly as she approached the counter, pulling her bag from her back.

"Do you know who it's by?" She set the bag down on the counter, puffs of dirt floating up from the surface. His employer began searching through its pockets. That scowl of his was hard to hold back, especially when she was so close by.

"Danny Kaye with the Andrews Sisters." Her grin widened and she pulled out a couple bottles of water. H2O was scratched delicately on the faded labeling with ink. _Purified_. God forbid the girl drank anything _irradiated_. That mirelurk alone probably filled her radiation quota for the day.

She sat down across from him as the song played on, taking sips of the water and pushing the other bottle to him without a second thought. Charon stared down at the clean little bottle, daring a glance up at the smoothskin as he took it in his hand. The girl didn't notice, and he realized, as she kept drinking and humming to the tune of the song, that the water was _intentionally_ passed to him to drink. Testily, he unscrewed the cap, waiting for the smoothskin to bark at him that she didn't mean to give it to him and it wasn't intentional at all, giving her a long hard look. He could tell the hairs on the back of her _perfect _little neck had stood up and sensed his eyes, and she turned her head sharply to him. He was caught in the middle of taking the cap off. The smoothskin didn't say a word, and realized he was waiting for her ok to drink from the bottle. Her brows furrowed and her lips twisted in a smirk, giving him a look that he translated to an amused expression as if what he was doing was the quirkiest thing she had ever seen. Standing up, she sighed and nodded, that smirk still on her face, and walked to the fridge.

He took a swig from the bottle and grumbled under his breath, feeling odd that he wasn't told to have it. It was just_ implied_ that he was allowed to take it. Thinking about the fact the smoothskin not only _sacrificed_ her precious water to a ghoul, but just _let him have it_, made his head hurt. He wasn't used to it, the concept of _sharing_ and not ordering him to drink it. Charon couldn't remember a time the previous asses that were his employers ever did something like that.

"Oh! _Sugar Bombs_!" He turned to watch her as she gushed over the centuries old cereal, looking up to him with some sort of genuine smile on her face and showing him the faded blue box. His employer must have been fucking crazy.

* * *

"I bet, if you looked a bit harder, just a _bit_ harder, you'd see those stars out there." Alma sighed dreamily as she looked up at the night sky. Her escort only grumbled, and her eyes fell back to him. He was hunched over; his elbows on his thighs, tending the fire in front of them with a piece of scrap metal. Once again, curiosity of the strange ghoul piqued her interest. "Hey, Charon... can I ask you something?" He chanced a cold glance at her and quickly turned his face back to the fire, nodding.

"Look, I, uh... I want to know why you're always acting like a jerk to me." She decided it was time to ask him. Maybe he didn't realize, but she always kept her watch on him. Not out of suspicion, but like before, out of curiosity. And she was _quite_ aware that he didn't like her, perhaps even _hated_ her. "Why don't you '_like_' me?"

The ghoul sat up straight, looking directly in her questioning eyes, "I _don't_ dislike you, and I _don't_ act like a jerk to you, miss."

"Oh, don't lie to me, Charon. I know you pretty much despise my existence. Did you think I wouldn't notice you mumbling, ahem, _'fucking smoothskin' _under your breath every time I did something you'd probably deem stupid?" She leaned forward in her chair, giving him the hard look he had given her a couple hours before when she had given him the water bottle. Of course, the ghoul's composure didn't break. "Be honest with me, now."

Charon grimaced, an expression she often caught on his face whenever she came too close to him or even smiled at him, "No, I did not think you would notice." A grin spread on her face and she softened her gaze on him.

"So, then why do you hate me so much? You are allowed to say _whatever_ you want to describe your unbridled hate for me," she challenged him. Deep down, she knew he wouldn't hold back now that she instructed him to say as much as he wanted about her. "I know, an unusual request of you, but you have the absolute freedom to say _everything_ you might have ever wanted to say to my face. I promise that I won't do anything to punish you or stop you."

"I hate you because you are a _smoothskin_," he said, and he sat up straighter. "Your kind, you're nothing but piles of shit, undeservingly blessed with that _skin_ of yours. Untainted from the radiation permeating this miserable _wasteland_. You all are arrogant, despicable, backstabbing people who only care about _yourselves_. You treat ghouls as if they're nothing more than bloatfly carcasses. And the only reason you all are still on top of the world is that most of my people are too _weak_ to oppose you all." Charon folded his arms, glaring with disgust. "You walked straight into the Ninth Circle with that rifle of yours out for all to see, just to show, oh hey, you're a _smoothskin_, no _shuffler's_ going to mess with you unless they want a _bullet_ in their brains." Alma knew he would have gone on if she hadn't rose up her hand to silence him.

"I understand your hatred for us... _smoothskins_, as you say. And I'm sorry I didn't leave my gun in my room at Carol's, my mistake for toting it around the bar with you present." She couldn't stop smiling, something about his rage against her just made her feel funny. "Yet... aside from that, which I still apologize for, you haven't said a thing about why you hate _me_." The triumphant glint she saw in his eyes was gone, but he didn't look taken aback. She secretly applauded the ghoul for keeping such an effective poker face. "I must ask you, do I seem arrogant to you? Despicable? _Backstabbing_? Do I treat you like a, what was it... oh, a _bloatfly_ carcass?" She smiled softly at the ghoul. He stayed silent for a while. She could practically hear the cogs turning in his head.

Charon spoke slowly and evenly, but the tone of distaste did not leave his voice, "now that I think about it, no. You do not seem arrogant, and you have not back-stabbed anyone or me as far as I can _tell_... And no, you do not treat me like a bloatfly carcass."

"Well at least I know I haven't pissed you off like _that_ yet." She leaned back in her chair, looking up at the night sky. "That's all I wanted to know. Really confirmed my suspicions about you. I hope your perception of me will change." Alma glanced back at him, and realized he kept staring at her. "Do you want to ask me something...?"


	5. Interlude

**AN:** This is a particularly long chapter, but I think it's a great one, so deal. Also, it's not furthering the main story, by the way. It's like, well, an interlude. I'm sure you'll enjoy it. I think. And I was nice and put dividers to make it seem as if it's shorter than it really is.

* * *

**|Chapter Four - Interlude|**

Really, she didn't want to go.

Honestly.

Her focus was on the D.C. ruins and the radio station, not being out in the _wasteland_, wanting to scream at her power armor for not having an efficient, grade-A cooling system. Yet here she was, her hair threatening to cling to her skin even though she wasn't wearing a helmet. _Why_ did she go? Because that bastard _Three Dog_, the crazy man, convinced her it would be worth the while.

Why would having to crunch through yellowed grass, red and gray and brown and all other shitty colored rocks and dirt, out where vicious animals roamed free and yao guai stalked in the burned forests be _worth while?_

Because she was just as curious about the girl as Three Dog had been. And she didn't want to send someone out to the wastes to investigate for her. She had the option to, Three Dog had suggested it and she _was_ the captain of the Pride, but she was bored of GNR. And this girl seemed very suspicious, to be able to not crap her panties when they went through that maze of a school filled with super mutants. And when somehow, she had enough composure to _launch that Fatman at the Behemoth_. Its corpse was_ still_ being surveyed by the rest of the Pride on how to pull it out of the square before the Fortress GNR. Preferably in the same direction it entered their encampment.

Suffice to say, the girl was _extraordinary_ for a Vault Dweller. Sure, she wasn't too good with keeping her rifle in good condition; it jammed up some during the firefight; but she was a very good shot. Almost_ too_ good. Like she had fought super mutants _before_. And that was why they were there, in the wastes, just a half mile from Big Town.

"Sentinel Lyons, what do you think we'll _learn_ from all this?" Kodiak's masked and electronic-sounding voice rang from her back right. He didn't leave his helmet behind.

"Yeah, Sentinel, what if this whole Big Town thing that vaultie talked about was a_ lie?_ What if nobody's there?" Dusk's voice came from her back left. She had kept her helmet too. Both of them were fools. The weather was like a perpetual mild springtime in a desert. Dry heat. Enough to make a person wearing power armor regret ever wearing it, or knowing of its existence, or choosing to live in the DC wastes instead of somewhere else. Like California.

"Then our man Three Dog won't have a story to tell. But if not you two, _I_ want learn about this girl and what she can do. Remember when she asked us if she could join the Pride?"

"I thought she was _joking_." Kodiak said, a snort in his voice. They could see a suburb ahead of them, with its cookie cutter ranch housing.

"Me too." Dusk responded. A small tidbit of green something was poking out from in front of the houses they were approaching from behind. A lot of red was around it too. Red liquid.

"_I _did too, I won't lie." She admitted, and they came closer to the suburban houses. The green began to shift shape from a blob into something akin to a hand. "But I think, besides the way she joked about it, she must have been serious. So that's why we need to see if she's got truth behind her words. She could very well be a part of our Pride one day, if not the Brotherhood." The green hand was huge. Lyons stooped and compared it to her own. The width of the palm extended two inches larger than her own, and the fingers the same. The nails were yellowish and blackened at the tips. At the other end of the hand sat ripped, bullet-torn flesh; the origin of the pool of blood.

She could hear her companions gawk at the mess of super mutant bodies before them. Dotted all along the street were the remains of super mutants and a few broken rifles here and there. The corpses continued on the street ahead of them, yet formed a sort of semicircle in between two houses. In fact, all of the houses on that street were boarded up with two by fours, sandbags, gutted automobiles, barbed wire - the works for a makeshift fortress. As they approached the fortress, they saw that someone had obviously pushed the corpses away from the fortress entrance and onto the burnt lawns of the opposite houses. The entrance, itself, was a man-made moat of irradiated, brackish and green water with a bridge separating the island of humanity from the decimated suburb. Lyons and her crew finally stepped in full view of the entrance, and were immediately screamed at by a young man across the moat.

"_You!_ Yeah, _you three!_ What the _fuck_ do you want?" He wore a helmet similar to Rivet City security armor, but the rest was the typical, most-likely-looted leather armor wastelanders sometimes dressed themselves in. With the strange leather spaulders and brown and gray exterior. As Lyons stepped on the bridge, relieved it could support her weight due to the power armor, the youth sprung up and aimed his rifle at her. "Don't come any closer, or I'll shoot! And I _know_ how to shoot, trust me!"

She sighed and held up her hand to silence the kid. "My name is Sentinel Sarah Lyons, and the two behind me are Paladin Kodiak and Knight Captain Dusk. We are a part of the Brotherhood of Steel and we're here to investigate the events that occurred here, on behalf of Galaxy News Radio's disc jockey Three Dog." Her introduction was long and pretentious. Or, pretentious to anyone that wasn't worth their mettle, like _wastelanders_. But that was just how she talked. In any case, she saw the youth soften up and lower his rifle.

"Oh, that one guy on the radio? That's, that's okay. You're here to, um, investigate the town?" Lyons didn't answer. Whether or not the kid even knew it, he had asked a rhetorical question. "Oh yeah, the super mutants. Yeah, okay, sorry about that." She confirmed there was something wrong with him. "Sorry, I'm still kind of on edge, haven't gotten used to the peace around here thanks to those Wasteland Queens. Or, more accordingly, the Princess and Duchess."

"Kid, what the _hell_ are you talking about?" Kodiak asked as he allowed them to cross the bridge. Lyons was just as confused and annoyed.

"Sorry sorry sorry, my name's Dusty by the way." He introduced himself. Lyons wanted to smack him for not getting to the point. "Anyways, there were these two girls, you see? They were around our age, maybe a bit older, or younger, I dunno. But anyways, they came to the town and when I asked them who they were, they called themselves the Wasteland Princess and the Wasteland Duchess. They were just joking though, especially when they heard about the super mutants. They said the names were to give us morale and stuff."

"Right... kid, do you even know what their _names_ were?" Dusk sounded like she wanted to punch him too, if not more so.

"Ah, sorry but no. Back in those days, I never let my sights leave the bridge and the streets, and I couldn't ever leave post. Nobody else had guns back then, save for Kimba and Flash. But Kimba only had a BB gun then, and Flash was all talk and no game." Lyons gave him her you-better-get-to-the-point look, and he flinched, "So _anyways_, I never talked to them enough to hear about their names. You could ask Pappy and Kimba though. The Princess and Duchess talked to them more since, well, you know."

"Who are, ahem, Pappy and Kimba?" Lyons asked, ready to finish this hardly worth while interrogation.

"Oh, yeah, um, Pappy's got tan skin and flat brown hair, and he's wearing like, some sort of brown brahmin skin getup. And Kimba's in the same gear as me. Except, you know, for females. She's black and has her hair pulled back in a ponytail." Lyons said goodbye. Her companions didn't.

When she turned to look into the town, aside from its rinky-dink decor of dirt, dirt, and more dirt, she saw the two people in question chatting around an oil drum with white ash leaking out of it. They hadn't noticed her troop enter, but as soon as they approached them, the two jumped and backed up slightly. Pappy scowled openly at them and Kimba didn't seem to take her eyes off of her armor.

"Who the hell are _you_ and how come Dusty didn't shoot your asses?" Pappy immediately growled, and Lyons felt like slapping him, too. "And what's with the junk robot getup? Gonna go trick or treating in raider hot spots?"

"Watch your mouth, boy." Dusk grumbled back, and Lyons intervened.

"I'm Sentinel Lyons, from the Brotherhood of Steel. We're here to investigate your super mutant problem for Three Dog." She said, and she saw Pappy's hard gaze soften, and Kimba brighten up immediately. "Your watchman, Dusty, he said some girls calling themselves the Princess and Duchess passed through here?"

"More than passed through here. In fact, they saved us from being turned into super mutant food. Which, by the way, aren't a problem for us anymore." Pappy pat his hip where a holster for a .10 sat. Pitifully ignorant. They must have only been besieged by two or three mutants at a time. "The Princess and Duchess were our _saviors_, practically."

"Yeah, and they even brought back Red and Shorty, and Timebomb too." Kimba piped up, apparently yearning to have her voice heard.

Kodiak decided to speak up, then. "Brought back Red, Shorty, and Timebomb?" Kimba nodded happily, her eyes glued to their power armor.

"The Princess and the Duchess came by because they were lost. We were _real _suspicious of them at first, though, because one looked like, I dunno, a maintenance lady in a jumpsuit, and the other was just dressed in all sorts of weird gear." Lyons saw Pappy nod in the corner of her eye at Kimba's story. "Anyway, we told them about our friend Red being captured by super mutants and carried off to Germantown, and they were kind enough to go and _rescue_ her. Not only that, but Shorty, who we thought was long dead, was rescued too! When they came back, the Princess and the Duchess taught us all how to shoot in the junkyard. The Princess even revived Timebomb from his coma, _too_. They were going to leave after that, but we asked them to stay a night before they left since they had just come back from _'Supermutanttown'_. That night we were surprised by a super mutant attack, but they led us like soldiers on a battlefield and we fended them off. Now we can defend our home, look for food, and actually live like _people_."

Lyons was blown over by the story. So much... _goodness_ from two people! Two _wastelanders_! And this Princess girl healing a kid from a _coma_? Almost... almost _messiah_-like. It seemed too good to be true. But she needed to know who the fuck these people were if she was to get any hard evidence for Three Dog. And for herself, "Kimba, Pappy, do you know these girls' names? At all? Or any details about the revival or the rescue?"

Pappy shook his head. "No, not really. They didn't talk much about their past or what they did to save our friends. But they were like anti-super mutant propaganda machines. Always chattered about how to kill, especially the Duchess. She seemed like she knew more about killing than the Princess, but both were really good at what they did." He turned slightly and pointed to a house the closest to the south wall of their makeshift fortress. "Bittercup might be in there, the Clubhouse, and you could find Flash somewhere around here. They both really adored the Princess and the Duchess, and they seemed to talk to them a lot too, if not out of politeness since those two never left them alone." He leaned in closer and Lyons bent down slightly to hear him. "Talking to the three they saved might not be a good idea, they could be having some repercussions from the coma and kidnapping alike. But Bittercup seemed _obsessed_ over our visitors, so I'm sure you'll hear what you need to know from her, if not Flash."

The whole damn thing was turning into a wild goose chase. But she digressed; all of them were kids, teens, youths. They'd be sketchy on recounting details without over elaborating, of course. She would have patience. The stories were crazy. They were kind of fun to listen to, and hopefully true.

"Where'd you get that armor stuff?" Kimba's naive little voice broke through her thoughts. Lyons looked at Kodiak and averted her eyes to Kimba twice. He understood the silent gesture. She loved stories, but not mindless rabble. "Where could I get some?" Kodiak, in response, pulled Dusk to his side, despite her protests, and the two set to occupying Kimba's time talking about power armor, and forcibly getting Pappy involved too. As Lyons walked to the Clubhouse, she looked over her shoulder to see Pappy checking over his clothes and pinching at them with curiosity. He was just as interested in their armor as Kimba was; he just didn't want to admit it.

Lyons turned to look back at the Clubhouse, and found herself silently delighted on the childishness of the kids living here. Which then made her think, where were the _adults_? But she would ask about that la-

"You fucking _bitch!_" Were the words of an exasperated youth running out of the Clubhouse backwards, waving a .32 pistol in the air. He had tousled blond hair and clothing made of cotton and brahmin skin. The suspenders for his brahmin slacks were about his waist, and low enough to make him waddle and show his boxers. "I'm not fucking doing that, _Bittercup_, and I'm not fucking dating you again! Unlike _you_, I've got some goddamn standards!"

In the doorway of the dark Clubhouse slunk a redhead girl, her clothes typical of mercenary garb, but painted black with most likely tar or soot. Her face was covered in white, powdery chalk; makeshift makeup? In any case, Lyons stood, slightly flabbergasted, and watched the girl grab the doorjamb and lean on it, her cheek squished against it and her eyes sulky. "Oh come on, Flashy, don't be a jackass. I thought you were _liking_ it?"

"Who the _fuck_ likes it when a crazy chick like _you_ forces herse-" Lyons didn't want to hear anymore, God in heaven she didn't want to hear anymore. She lurched forward and smacked the .32 out of the youth's hands and yelled for them to both can it. "Jesus robot lady, who the _fuck_ are you? Don't get between me and that _whore_, I'm just getting-"

"I said _enough_. I'm Sentinel Lyons. I'm with those two over by your friends Pappy and Kimbo."

"Kimba." The redhead interjected, and Lyons gave her a fierce look.

"Ahem- _Kimba_. I'm here to ask about the Princess and the Duchess." She said everything fast. She had to introduce herself since they hadn't been there when her group talked to Dusty. Or Pappy and Kimba. She wondered if forcing the town to call a meeting to meet her and her companions would have been a better idea. The girl in the door grinned broadly at the mention of the two visitors, and Flash immediately dropped his attitude and smiled just as broadly. Children. Always with the mood swings.

"_Ohhhhhhhhh!_ The Princess and the Duchess!" The girl drawled, and she stood up slightly straighter, but still holding on the jamb for support. "You know, the Princess was _so_ grateful for me for bringing her a compact I found. She said she just_ loved_ makeup and I couldn't let our Wasteland Princess go without _something_ to dress her face in." Lyons, once again, wanted to smack the girl, as she did with everyone else in the damned town.

"The Princess and Duchess were grade-A girlies, yeah yeah." Flash intervened, wanting to draw attention to him. "Sure, the Duchess was a bit bitchy, but she was awesome. This one time, she showed me how to gut a-"

"Listen. I just want to know what their names were. Hopefully, _hopefully_ you two know their names? Their real names?" Lyons felt herself becoming tired with the visit, instead. Maybe because it was taking longer and longer to get hard evidence.

"Oh, well our lovely Princess' name was Alma." Bittercup said, Lyons' train of thought once again ruptured. But this was good, very good. "She told everyone else her name, but I guess they forgot. She was a really pretty girl though, with her dark brown hair and eyes and stuff so I guess Princess just suited her more. I guess nobody liked her as much as I did to remember her real name. This other time, you know, I found a _lipstick_. And I gave it to her because-"

"Nobody wants to hear your lesbian fantasies, _whore_." Flash grumbled, and Bittercup stuck her tongue out at him in response. They knew adult words, but they were still kids in a playground. "The Duchess' name was Elizabeth. So fancy, huh? But she said she even had a nickname _aside_ from that, but I forgot what it was. She said her real name was a secret to everyone, and even the _Princess_ at one point. But she told me her name because she trusted me. And she said it wasn't like I was being told her_ last_ name, so it wasn't a big deal. The Duchess said that even her best friends, not us, but some other people she said dressed like her, didn't even know her name was Elizabeth."

Lyons wanted to thank whatever hellish lord out there that she finally got the names of the two girls. But this Elizabeth seemed... interesting. Alma hadn't come to GNR with a partner, but it was obvious the other girl had been her companion at one point. In any case, it was confirmed that Alma became the town's Jesus, and her friend Elizabeth probably the Holy Spirit. Now, finally, all she had to do was talk with Timebomb, Red, and Shorty. For the nitty gritty. For the details that would give her insight about Alma, and perhaps clues about who Elizabeth was.


	6. The River Acheron and Sugar Bombs

**AN:** Now we're back to Alma and Charon, by the way. Any chapter deviating from the story, from here on out, will have Interlude or some such nonsense in the title.

* * *

**|Chapter Five - The River Acheron and Sugar Bombs|**

Fucking _yes_, he wanted to ask her something. Charon kept his gaze at her steely and cold, but in his head, he was taken aback and filled with self doubt. In reality, it was true, he never once heard or seen her act against him in their time together. Of course, that only spanned a total of two days, but not once did she call him a shuffler or a zombie. Every time the smoothskin spoke to him, she called him by name, and not once was there a look of disgust in her face. In fact, if he thought about it even more, she always had this curiosity of him about her. He suddenly realized how strange his new employer really was, and how much he was going to hate it. "Yes, I do."

"Well, go ahead, you can ask me anything you'd like." That smile of hers was still plastered on her face. Taking the time to really look at her, he realized she was very clean and refined as compared to the usual drifters of the wastes. Then again, she could have just been some smoothskin's daughter back in Tenpenny or perhaps even Rivet City (which of course made him wonder how a Tenpenny child would stand to be in his presence to begin with). Yet, her garb was strange. It was hard to tell what the hell she was wearing in the darkness, but he knew for a fact it looked like some sort of armored body suit. It wasn't made of leather or metal, and thank whatever higher being there was that it _wasn't_ composed of scrap and kitchenware like a raider's usual uniform.

"What is your name?" He decided that he could be a bit more adventurous with his questioning, since he had just unsuccessfully tried to rip her a new one. "Also, where do you get that suit?"

The girl smiled, crossing her legs at the knee and placing her hands in her lap, "You must have forgotten my name on your contract. It's Alma Adler. And _this_ old thing," she tugged on the dark blue fabric of her clothing, "is from my home, albeit with some upgrades. Standard issue Vault-tec Vault suit."

Charon gazed hard at the suit, and suddenly, a light clicked on in his mind. Vault suit. From her home.

His employer, he finally came to the realization, was from a _Vault_. The last time he heard of a person from the Vault, it was about a girl saving a town full of kids from _super mutants_... but no, this girl couldn't possibly have been the one to venture right into the sights of a super mutant rifle. She was too... _nice_. Too _kind_. He admitted to himself that she was the kindest smoothskin he ever met. Hardly a bitch, as he used to name her from before. Yet, completely mysterious; from a _Vault_, nonetheless. He wondered how many Vaults were scattered around the wasteland, and decided the smoothskin was from a different one than the vigilante wandering somewhere in the wastes.

"Want to ask me anything else?" She cocked an eyebrow, that amused grin on her face again. He shook his head. No, he needed time before he was allowed to ask her about herself again. Time to assess the reality that his new employer was as gentle as a puppy, and his employment consisted of being her guard dog from the big, _scary_ wastes. As much as he hated to admit, he had looked forward to being under contract of a mercenary or any person that often charged into a firefight screaming bloody murder. It would have been, ironically, a breath of fresh air from that stuffy Ninth Circle. But no. He was her page, her bodyguard, the one to throw himself in front of the not-so-proverbial bullet for her _safety_. What a load of horse shit.

"No, Miss. It's late. Perhaps you should get to bed," he suggested, and she seemed to think for a while before nodding her head.

"You're right. There's bunks in the tent, Charon, so you can choose whichever bunk you want to sleep in." He watched her stand up, stretching and wandering to the radio. Billie Holiday was singing about her insane affection for her lover as his employer decided to crawl on the counter and turn off the radio, turning and hopping back down to make her way to the tent. A sudden look of intrigue arose in her face. "Charon... do you know where your name comes from?"

He took some time to think about it. Indeed, he was aware that his name wasn't normal, even for wasteland standards, but he couldn't remember if there was any significant meaning to it. Probably a jumble of syllables and nothing more. He never thought of it as a real name, just something that made it easier for people to get his attention. "No, I don't." A smile immediately erupted on the smoothskin's face.

"Well _I_ do," she said triumphantly, yet it had no effect on his cold expression. This Vault girl, not only did she make him rethink how much he apparently hated her, but she somehow also knew what his name meant? Double horse shit. "The name Charon, or, that's how everyone seems to pronounce it as, is actually from Greece. In Greek it's pronounced _Kharon_, with a hard 'K' sound." Greece? Greek? What the hell was this girl talking about? Triple horse shit. "Charon was the ferryman of Hades, bringing the souls of the dead across the river Acheron to their new homes. Provided, of course, if they had a gold coin to pay him for it. I suppose sometimes people said he ferries on the Styx, one of my most favorite mythological rivers, but I digress. In particular, Dante's Inferno's definition of him is my favorite." He _did_ know what Hades was. Back in Underworld, the statue in the middle of the city was often graced with the somewhat-adjective Hades. Also, the ghoul girl Tulip, down below the Ninth Circle, often chattered about it. Hell, _Underworld_ was another name for Hades, and he knew _that_. Still, the words Styx and Acheron evaded him. And Dante's Inferno, too. Where were these places, or what were these people or things, and how would a Vaultie like her know about them? Quadruple horse shit.

"Just thought of letting you know. It's a very _inventive_ name; whoever gave that name to you must have known Greek mythology, I would think. It's just a very uncommon name to give to someone out of imagination," she commented offhandedly. "Well, I hoped that brightened your... night, _ha_, so, I'm going to head to bed. You can sleep whenever you like for however long you like, we're in no big rush to go anywhere yet." She walked into the tent, climbing to a top bunk and carefully stripping her vault suit of its armor into a neat pile by the foot of her bed before laying down to sleep.

Charon kept his eyes on her as she settled on the bunk, watching her shift around to get comfortable before she finally began to breathe softly after a half hour. Totally asleep. Now, he had much more freedom. He stood, stretching and rolling his neck to pop it again; glad he could, now that his employer was in dreamland. He didn't know what to think. This girl, this _smoothskin_, she was insane. She had to be. Fresh from a Vault, damn, even her _skin_ was still pale from her years of living underground. Her personality didn't seem to be riddled with bullet holes and scarred from knife fights. Her dark brown eyes somehow managed to glint with a childish maturity one associated with a teenager. Even her hair and nails were relatively untouched by the detritus of the wastes. He walked to the tent, peering in on her sleeping form. She slept soundlessly too, and didn't seem to kick or speak or anything. A mind untainted by the hell that was the wastes. One_ hell _of a lucky smoothskin.

* * *

The radio blared from the counter across the way. Three Dog joyously rang out his wake-up call as Charon bolted upright, staring hard out of the tent. Outside, his employer rummaged in the fridge; the box of Sugar Bombs sitting next to an empty bowl on the counter behind her. He could just barely hear her hum a tune from one of GNR's songs, and frowned at her as she seemed to bounce with every step, pulling out a dirt-encrusted but tightly sealed milk bottle. The smoothskin chanced a glance at the tent and saw him staring at her, and her brows lifted and eyes widened in surprise.

"Sorry! I hope I didn't wake you!" Her voice cut through the warm yet slightly wind chilled morning air, and he only looked away, slinging his legs over the side of the bed and rubbing a finger at his dried eyes. _Always_ with the eyes. Since his ghoulification, they were a constant bother in the mornings. He knew it had to do with the fact he couldn't sweat, or something. It took a long time for what was left of his eyelids to get his eyes moist again. He stood up, and rubbed at his legs and underarms, his routine for getting rid of the uncomfortable feeling of sleeping in leather armor. Even though his sense of touch was a tad singed, friction from clothing in the back of his knees and crook of his elbow still bothered the shit out of him. He turned, slinging his shotgun on his back, and exited the tent, walking into the crisp morning air. His employer walked up to him, two bowls of cereal in her hands, holding one out to him. Sugar Bombs and, if anything, slightly cooled brahmin milk. _Delicious_. "Here, I made us some cereal before we head out. We've got a pretty good day ahead of us, and unless you want to eat that fish stuff, I suggest you wolf down a few bowlfuls."

He took the bowl and sat on a stool, watching her stand and eat a spoonful. The same look of disgust reared up in her face and shoulders, but she only shook it off; a small, amused smile on her lips, "Different from the rations at home... but if I'm going to be out here for such a long time, I suppose I gotta get used to it, hmm?" She set the bowl down and unconsciously brushed off her re-armored vault suit. He ate a few spoonfuls and looked back up at her again as she made her way around the counters, reaching the shelves and rummaging through the contents of various boxes stacked on them. In the course of a few more spoonfuls, his employer had successfully pulled down and emptied every container on the shelf, and he noticed her pocketing small, worthless things.

He didn't need to look at her face to know she was irrationally excited when she found a little pink cherry bomb underneath a pile of burnt books. "Oh, this is adorable. I'm gonna keep this." She turned with the cherry bomb in hand, and smiled sheepishly when she realized he had been watching her. "I'm a bit of a pack rat... but isn't this thing so amazing?" The smoothskin held out the little bomb, twirling it by its pink, waxed wick and making sure he saw every groove of the cherry-shaped bomb. He shrugged and ate some more sugar bombs. Strange as hell.

"Oh, Charon, your silence can be so irksome," she mock-scolded, and she pocketed the bomb, moving back to her cereal. "I can tell Ahzrukhal and everyone else you were employed to must have never let you speak a word unless they told you to," a clump of sugar bombs slid down her throat, "and I can't stand silence. That's the problem with these wastes. They're too quiet. Reminds me of the Vault." Her nose scrunched up, a frown flashing on her face. Of course, this crazy little Vaultie went back to her calm and optimistic smile. "So, from now on, I am allowing you to speak whenever you please, aside from those battle cries of yours whenever we run across those, uh, what are they called? The people with the sagging skin and glowing eyes...?" She looked to him, lost and amused with herself.

"Ferals," Charon grunted, and she nodded.

"Yeah, those ferals." Another bite of sugar bombs. Charon suddenly realized how envious he was that the muscles in her throat were clearly visible when they moved. Unlike smoothskins, ghouls looked void of expression and basic human body language. Any defining movement of their muscles was buried in their tattered skin and exposed, bright red muscle; they had no real skin to manipulate. Another_ Fuck You_ from the bombs that had fallen so many years ago. Then he started to get annoyed at her for so easily provoking his envy. Emotions like that, he always thought, were worthless, and unpleasant when they reared their nasty little heads. He didn't need a petty thing such as _envy_ to survive, only loathing and a superiority complex. Yet that bothersome little green devil, along with other emotions, wouldn't stop popping up from time to time to bruise his thoughts.

"If conversation with me is what you wish, then so be it," he said factually. She just smiled and shook her head.

"This employee to employer formality will eventually be the death of me, too. But I can handle it for now." The smoothskin flung her bag on her back and picked up her rifle from the floor. "I don't know how you were treated and how you handled conversation before, but just a reminder, you are a person, and you are allowed to speak and chide and whatever else persons do. In fact, I wish I didn't have to order you to be sociable whenever you want to be." He watched her shrug and point to his own knapsack that had been resting on the floor. "In any case, now that we're awake, we should get moving. Megaton shouldn't be too far away. My Pip-Boy says we just need to head southwest for a while."


	7. It's In His Contract

**AN:** Before anyone says anything, I did get some inspiration for Charon's past employment with Ahzrukhal from another story on here, but if you think about it, it makes a lot of sense. I can't find that story, but regards go to that writer. Sorry, by the way, if there isn't enough action yet, I just want to let you guys become familiar with the two so you'll enjoy future chapters better.

* * *

**|Chapter Six - It's in His Contract|**

Wandering in the general direction of Megaton hadn't been easy. She had almost wanted to smack herself for embarrassing herself in front of her bodyguard. When they left the encampment at Friendship Heights, they had been attacked immediately by a hulking behemoth with green skin and a permanently set, yellow-toothed snarl.

She hadn't fared well in the battle.

Charon had pulled her away from a car she had been crouched behind, telling her it was safer to hide behind a wall or anything that wouldn't _explode_ as soon as the monster riddled the defense with bullets from its assault rifle. In fact, _he_ had done most of the fighting. Her rifle was pitifully uncared-for and in poor condition, jamming up more than once in the fight. Amidst the blasts from Charon's combat shotgun and the staccato of assault rifle fire, she had been busy cursing under her breath and smacking the gun until it jumped back to working condition. She had found herself barely avoiding the metal bits zinging past her head, and had cringed when Charon growled as a bullet snagged itself in his shoulder. Yet, after his methodical and strangely organized assault, the beast was dead, bent over a rusted car and blood pouring to the street.

Alma handed him a stimpak as they approached the monster's territory it had been guarding, and she twisted her lips into a frown as he jabbed it into his shoulder and quickly dosed himself with the medicine, turning her attention to the camp. The area itself was shocking; she couldn't remember seeing _anything_ like it before, even when she was in the Mall, or Germantown. Huge steel girders were ground into the concrete around the beast's camp, blood and bodies decorating the metal with their visceral gore. She couldn't help but cover her mouth, stifling her insistence to gag whenever she caught a whiff of the decay. She wondered, on a partially unrelated note, if the guise of night and darkness in Germantown and the Mall had helped shield her from the horrors super mutants often decorated their encampments with. Then, her eyes caught on something.

It was a man. A man crying to himself and staring down at the bloodstained cement. His arms were tied behind his back, wrapped at the elbow and down to the wrists in tight cording, almost cutting into his flesh. He was clad in rags; a browned white shirt and shoddily sewn, pale gray overalls made of soft leather. He turned his filthy head and looked up at the pair of them, sudden shock sparking to life in his eyes. His face was covered in caked blood and grime, and his blond hair looked close to brown in certain spots from blows across the head.

"Oh, oh _god_! Thank god, please, _please_, help me," he pleaded and sat up straighter, looking up to her more fully. Alma noticed he didn't dare take a look at Charon. But maybe he was just too muddled in the mind to notice.

"Yes, of course, I have a knife right here..." She pulled out a combat knife from the weapons pocket of her sport bag; another item she had found from the camp at Friendship Heights. Charon stood ominously still, arms crossed and eyes watching, as she approached the man and knelt down, carefully sawing away at the cording. When the last straining material of the cord snapped, the man swung his arms to his front and rubbed them with his hands, standing up and breathing heavily. They were red and sore, incredibly lesioned; if he had been there any longer, the skin could have grown over the cording. She was glad they had rescued him in time.

"Oh thank you, thank you _so_ much. I don't know what would have happened if you didn't come along..." The man smiled with relief and stepped closer, pulling her hand gently into his own and shaking it. Alma blushed and shook her head.

"Oh no, sir, I hardly did anything. It was my bodyguard, here, who killed the mutant. You should thank him," she said, nodding her head in Charon's direction. She glanced up at the ghoul. He was still stoic, arms still folded, and eyes still staring down at the man they had rescued. He just shook her hand harder, shaking his own head, the smile from before waning distastefully.

"Well, yes, thanks goes to the _ghoul _for helping you kill that bastard," he said offhandedly, and he smiled at her again. "Yet, out of the kindness in your heart, you released me from whatever hell I was bound to fall into. Thank you." Alma looked up at Charon. He was examining a body impaled through the stomach on a girder, seeming to ignore them completely. "I know where that mutant hid some medical supplies. I'll get them for you, to pay you back for your gratitude." The man turned to search for the supplies, but Alma decided to speak up.

"No thanks, sir. Really, we'll be fine, what with my bodyguard making sure I don't waltz into another firefight with my head in la-la land." She smiled and the man stopped, turning and looking at her quizzically. "Keep those supplies. We're far from any settlements; you'll need all the help you can get if you're going to go out into the wastes."

The man chuckled, shaking his head. "You think I'm going to go out there all by myself? After the shit I've been through? You're _heavily_ mistaken." He strode back up to her, and she saw he had a more mischievous, strange glint in his eyes. Charon cleared his throat loudly as the man came closer, but he didn't seem to notice or care. "Sure, I'll give you all the stimpaks and whatever else is hidden in those med kits. But, you are going to escort me. To Megaton." He grabbed her forcefully by the wrist and leaned in, whispering, "_Shit_, I've been tied up for so long anyways, maybe, when we get to Megaton, you could do me another favor-"

Alma heard Charon growl, and all of a sudden the man was wrenched away from her, and she watched Charon push him back, his shotgun already out in his hands.

"It would be in your best _interest_ that you do not come that close to my employer again," he grumbled menacingly, as the man backed up, holding his palms high in the universal language of defeat. Alma felt her face turn hot. _He_ was embarrassing _her_, now. "You do not have the right to tell my employer what to do. She will not _escort_ you to Megaton." He cocked his shotgun and aimed it at the man's face. He let out a frightened wail, trying to assure Charon he didn't mean any harm, yet still backing up. "Leave now. She has already helped you from the super mutant; she doesn't need to show _scum_ like you any more mercy. The medical equipment will stay here, with her. _Go_." The man gulped and nodded, turning and sprinting away, dust and debris kicked up in the panic. Alma walked up to Charon, watching the man run, flustered.

"Charon... you didn't need to do that," she muttered, feeling a twinge of guilt for the man who was trying as hard as he could to put as much distance between them as possible, tripping up once, yet getting back to his feet instantly in a mad scramble. "He just wanted us to escort him to Megaton. We had the same destination anyways..."

"Miss, it is in my contract to keep you protected at all times, from all people, and all creatures. That man was threatening you, so I acted," he said gruffly, slinging his shotgun on his back and looking down at her gravely. "You seem to put a good amount of trust in total _strangers_. I advise you reconsider how you act with the people of the wastes." He was scolding her as if she was a _child_. It irritated her and made her angrier at him; how did _he_ know if that poor man wasn't just a bit mentally exhausted and was acting the way he was because of it? She silenced, though, and turned to sift through the various crates and med kits scattered around the floor, to set her angered thoughts aside. Amidst the junk even _she_ didn't want to pocket, she found a couple stimpaks and some ammo for both of their guns, and a surprising amount of caps, around two hundred in total, in the bottom of a crate. Alma tossed her findings in her pack, and felt her hair stand on end as she pulled out a bottle of irradiated water from a crate, knowing Charon continued to keep watch over her, "It would be advisable if you keep that water for me. Radiation is like medicine for ghouls."

Alma, though upset at Charon, took the time to wipe the dirt and grime off of the bottle, and went to such lengths as to label it with his name.

* * *

The smoothskin was upset. No doubt, she was annoyed at him for kicking the worthless asshole out to the wastes. But he knew the man was manipulative simply by the way he praised her for releasing him from the super mutant. The fucker had been quite aware she was inexperienced and terrible with guns, not to mention kind-hearted and _too_ trustworthy. Charon was surprised the girl managed to keep herself alive for so long, being fresh from a Vault and as wide-eyed and naive as a newborn. His employer was a fool, but, as much as he wanted to, he realized he couldn't _really_ blame her for her childishness.

Charon also realized that whichever Vault she came from, the people inside and her parents had to have raised her with a self-righteous, tolerant, perhaps even pacifist outlook on life from before the war. Her views on ghouls were radically different from the rest of the world, even, dare he say it, Three Dog's. She complained about his contract and the fact she needed to order him to speak freely, and ranted about him being a person too, and instead of spewing bullshit that most bleeding hearts did (he suspected Three Dog of being hypocritical, as all ghouls did), she also_ treated_ him as a person. Something about that made him feel less pissed off at her gullibility and inability to use a weapon correctly. Though, how she wasn't disgusted by him, especially since she was raised in a Vault for most of her life and should have been susceptible to his admittedly zombie-like appearance, was baffling. And, for some reason or another, he wanted to know why she was so accepting of his deteriorated body and face. Shocking, since he usually didn't give a shit about his employers. But of course, she never specified he was allowed to ask questions to her whenever he pleased. Fucking contract was very specific on how he handled the orders of his employers.

The trek back to Megaton hadn't been too eventful, save for the super mutant and the asshole back near Friendship Heights. Her route had been amazingly linear, and the pair of them had managed to avoid what he knew were raider hot spots. Seemed like that wrist computer she wore (she called it a Pip-Boy, he remembered) was quite effective in mapping out a way for them to reach the settlement without wading knee-deep in raider bullshit. Not only that, but the thing could play the radio, and Charon had found himself silently fuming at the girl for blasting GNR when they had still been relatively close to the D.C. ruins. They had been lucky enough it didn't attract any wild animals or wild people. Who knows what kind of _fuckfest_ they would have gotten into if a band of raiders had heard them?

The smoothskin had been constantly tinkering with the damned thing, too. When he would accidentally find himself too close behind her because she'd slow down considerably, he would see her glance up from the screen every few moments to make sure she wouldn't run into any rubble, fall into a pothole, or splash into pools of irradiated water. The screen itself was decorated with words, pictures, and symbols. To him, it had looked more like a fancy child's toy than a full-fledged computer. A cartoon representation of the famous Vault Boy advertised across the Capital Wasteland appeared on the main screen and her name was listed underneath it. The cartoon was separated into six parts: the head, torso, arms and legs. Percentage meters seemed to list the condition of her body and limbs individually. The computer was a damn medical instrument too.

"Ah, Megaton," the smoothskin yawned as they walked past the giant metal gates, the settlement's Protectron greeting them in a programmed accent. Charon had been to the place quite a few times before. Often sent to do what Ahzrukhal called 'shotgun diplomacy' with the various schmucks in the town. Of course, he was damn sure half of the people Ahzrukhal had sicked him on were innocent and didn't deserve to lose half of their skulls. But it wasn't as if he could _do_ anything now. In some sense, even when Charon had to come and meet with the town's crime lord Moriarty, he knew the man, though a slimy bastard, didn't deserve the black eyes and broken noses he was often instructed to give if the man didn't have Ahzrukhal's caps. Charon was quite aware he was infamous among the lesser people of Megaton, and was well known in general for being the only ghoul besides Moriarty's slave to be seen doing business in the place. He was wrenched from his thoughts when the inner gates opened wide, his eyes being greeted with the somewhat familiar hole in the ground known as Megaton.

"Alma Adler! What a surprise to see you back, little lady." A deep, authoritative-yet-friendly voice rang out from the stairs leading to the crater. The sheriff of the town, Simms, as far as Charon could remember, reared up his head and smiled at the girl, before his eyes shifted sharply to Charon, his pistol soon out of its holster and pointing at the ghoul too. "Now I _gotta_ ask; why is Ahzrukhal's guard dog here with you, Alma?" He could feel the discontent in the sheriff's eyes.

The man was quite aware of the deeds he had done every time he visited the town. Sometimes, Charon would come into town to find its residents, paranoid as they were, running up to threaten him with their measly little pistols and close-to-broken rifles for entering the town. The only reason he hadn't plowed through the settlers was that Simms would bark at the assholes to leave the ghoul alone. He knew, as long as Ahzrukhal and Moriarty had a general contract for supplying each other, Simms couldn't stop Charon from injuring Moriarty if the slime didn't have the caps to keep the shipments going. He was also aware the two men hated the _fuck _out of each other, so Charon stepping in occasionally to possibly rip Moriarty a new one was a way of keeping a grip over the Irishman.

"Funny story, actually, Mister Simms." His employer smiled at the man and he lowered his gun only slightly. Charon stayed stoic and overall threatening, staring down at the shorter man. As 'nice' as Simms had been to Charon when he did his rounds for Ahzrukhal, he was aware the asshole wanted to lay a beating on him just as much as everyone else in the damned town did. "You see, Ahzrukhal gave me his contract. So Charon is my bodyguard now." Simms let out a deep chuckle, holstering the weapon and turning back to the smoothskin.

"Bodyguard? Ahzrukhal's dog belongs to you now? Well I'll be... how in the hell did you manage to pry the ghoul's contract out of that asshole's hands?" Charon could tell the sheriff was genuinely bewildered by the fact the girl had managed to become his new employer. Then again, he was just as amazed she had managed to do it, too.

"It, well, it cost a lot... of caps..." She faltered a bit, and Charon could see the girl blushing. He already knew that the smoothskin had paid a lot just to get him in her hands. Of course she was embarrassed as she related the story; she had managed to severely diminish, what he guessed was already small, her reserve of caps, looking like a naive fool in the process. "I had managed to wheedle the price down to a thousand caps, but I still didn't have much afterward... I have Moira to thank for paying me to help with that book of hers. If I hadn't helped, I wouldn't have had the bulk of my money to coincidentally get Charon's contract." Simms sighed and looked hard at the girl.

"Listen, Miss Adler. You need to be stingy with your money out here in the wastes." Charon could tell the man was about to scold her. But he didn't give a fuck; she deserved to be put in her place for being so careless with her money. Anyways, as long as the man didn't break the boundaries, he didn't need to step in. "People like Ahzrukhal may have some useful... _assets_," Simms looked at Charon, sizing him up, "but you need to realize to get those, they'll do their damnedest to sap you of your caps. I'm glad for you that you have an experienced, hired hand to help protect you in the wasteland, but next time, try not to do as much impulsive buying. It'll save you some money," his eyes diverted back to the girl, "and some sense."

His employer had reddened during the whole speech, and he caught a sight of her ears, even, turning pink. Fucking ears. "Thanks for that, Mister Simms..." she mumbled, kicking a rock near her boot and smiling that sheepish, embarrassed smile of hers. "Next time I'll keep your words in mind. I'm going to Moriarty's, ok?" The sheriff nodded and stepped aside. As they began walking, Simms spoke up from behind them.

"Be careful there, Missy. I don't have to tell you twice about that Irishman." The smoothskin turned her head and nodded, before leading them on to Moriarty's.


	8. Intermede

**AN:** Woo, back to Lyons! The title is in french by the way, and I figured this particular spelling of it fit it the most. But I could be wrong I suppose.

* * *

**|Chapter Seven - Intermede|**

The three kids that had been rescued all looked various shades of envious when they learned that she had met with their savior. And was doing an investigation on their story. For GNR.

They were gonna be _soooooo_ famous.

Ridiculous.

"Well Miss Lyons, it's a pleasure to meet you," the black girl spoke up. "What, exactly do you want to know about the rescue?" She set a clipboard down on the table, and Lyons could tell that she was trying to exert a professional air, even with the two boys around. The girl seemed like the leader, if not mother, of the town. Sure, her glaringly red jumpsuit and bandanna made her look childish, but she had a personality and maturity much higher than the others. Her name... her name was Red, right.

"How the girls managed to even pull it off, actually. How the whole thing came about, you know, things like that."

"Big Town's always been a pile of crap." Red began, folding her arms and looking up at her. "I came here a couple years ago, and even back then, it was just as bad. Super mutants always attacked. Day and night. Half the people here were insomniacs. And over half of them were killed or carried away." Lyons nodded, attentive, and both girls ignored the boys jabbering excitedly to each other about her. "A week before or so, Shorty, over here," she nodded her head to a boy that met his name to the letter; short and spunky with jet black hair and an upturned nose, "had been taken, and when I was taken, I was sure I was going to die. Nobody _ever_ came back from Germantown. Super mutants everywhere, centaur watchdogs, not to mention I had the convenience of seeing traps and mines laced all over the police station. And when I was locked in the jail, I had heard them talking about eating me or just killing me. Real... mortifying stuff." She shuddered at the memories.

"Anyways, a few days later, I hear all this commotion, gunshots and an explosion or two, coming from upstairs, right? I figured the mutants had gotten in a fight and killed each other, but in came my rescuers. They introduced themselves as Princess Alma and Duchess Elizabeth, and as they freed me they told me they knew somebody else was in the station. How they knew Shorty was in there, I had no idea. Even being a floor above him wasn't enough to hear his yells for hel-"

Shorty laughed loudly and obnoxiously, covering up Red's description of his suffering. Lyons didn't care, but it's not like the kid would know that. He was a kid. He was insecure. All of them were. "Yeah yeah, Red. So, when they came in, I was just shocked, ya know? The Duchess Elizabeth cut me free, but between you and me,_ I_ became Princess Alma's right hand man. She even gave me a perfectly-working .10 millimeter pistol and a bunch of stimpaks. And yeah she gave the same stuff to Red too, but I stayed by her side through the whole escape from the station, and I was really excited to shoot some mutants, ya know? But, could you believe this, they were all dead! The Princess and Duchess had whacked them all!"

"_Killed,_" Red corrected irritatedly.

Shorty dismissively waved his hand at her and continued. "When we got back, we had a huge celebration and they even taught us how to shoot and fix our guns. Or, the Duchess did. Alma said she wasn't that great at repairing them, but we were fine with that."

"_And?_" Red tapped her foot and stared hard at Shorty. He looked at her vacantly for a moment, then something apparently clicked.

"Oh, and the Princess taught us how to handle wounds and stuff and warned us about infections and things. She had some really impressive medical knowledge, too, lemme tell ya."

"But after that, they were going to leave."

"Yeah yeah, and we all begged them to stay; it was night and they were safer in our town than out in the wastes. Er, I mean, at least they'd have like, a _tiny_ percentage more of a chance to survive in our town anyways."

"The Duchess really wanted to leave, for some reason, but Alma convinced her to stay. And since she seemed to know much more about medical things than I did, I asked her to look at Timebomb for us." Red nodded her head back to the quiet boy on the gurney behind her, and he smiled sheepishly at Lyons. "She said she'd do her best, but I couldn't watch because she said too many people in the room wouldn't be good to wake up to. In any case, it took a few hours, but he was awake!"

Lyons felt suspicious of the girls, now, and especially Elizabeth. Something about their selfless endeavors seemed strange. Maybe, though, it was because actual kind hearted people were rare to come across these days. She turned to Timebomb, who started to wring his hands. "Do you have anything to say about that?"

He was silent at first. Not out of nervousness, she knew, only out of habit. He seemed to be a very soft-spoken kid. A silence fell in the clinic, which prompted him to start speaking. "The Princess, or, Alma I guess, never told me how she woke me up, to tell you the truth." He laughed slightly out of the absurdity. "But when I looked around the room, there was a bucket of bloody rags, empty stimpaks, and some surgical thread, and a chair pulled up to the gurney. When she got up to lead me outside I saw she had left some weird package of something that had this mind-numbing smell to it. She told me they were called smelling salts." He laughed again. More absurdity, apparently. "Weird, huh?"

"Yes... very weird." Lyons muttered. Smelling salts? She would have to ask the scribes in the citadel about that one. But otherwise, Alma was shaping up to be some sort of medical genius with a kind heart and access to tools that she knew most people in the whole of the wastes didn't have. It was almost intimidating to know a kid fresh from a Vault could hold her own so well as of then. Yet, there had been no real mention of Elizabeth, the mysterious companion of the vault dweller. From the sounds of it, the girl was incredibly brash but had some substantial knowledge about shooting and repairing guns. And had one of the kids mentioned she had dressed strange?... Yeah, they had.

She looked at the three survivors, saved from their possible deaths by Alma and Elizabeth. They would know more about the girl than anyone else in the town. Hopefully they had some memory of her, "And the Duchess? Elizabeth? What was she like? What did she do?"

"She was _really _rude sometimes." Red said, and she shrugged. "She was the kind of person you'd _expect_ to find in the wastes, really. Almost the complete opposite of Alma."

"Yeah, and she had got real angry when we were walking back from Germantown and we asked about raiders and slavers and stuff," Shorty commented. "And of course we'd ask her why, but she wouldn't tell us nuthin', and Alma told us to just let it go."

"Oh, and there was one strange thing." Red mentioned, and Lyons could literally feel her ears hone in on the girl. "When we were passing by a raider encampment a ways from the northern bridge, she wouldn't let us shoot at them, even when they started threatening us. We were an inch close to them opening fire on us, but she wouldn't let us shoot."

"Right, yeah, and, she even went as far to take our _pistols_ away until we were out of sight."


	9. Fucking Silver Tongued

**AN:** I know I know I know, it's been three days, you all must be dying for more. So yus, here it is. Make sure to _review_, because that's what keeps me writing. D:

* * *

**|Chapter Eight - Fucking Silver-Tongued|**

The dark, dimly lit saloon was as 'empty' as it always was. Most people didn't spend much time in the place. Usually, she'd see some people wander in, slam down just enough caps to get thoroughly drunk, and wander back out again. It was much different from the Ninth Circle, from what she gathered from her brief time in Underworld. People just didn't like to be around Moriarty. Or Gob, for that matter. The ghoul looked up from the bar, as he always did when door opened, and she was greeted with the biggest smile he could muster.

"Man, am I _glad_ to see you," he growled in that gravelly voice she knew was probably universal with ghouls. Alma smiled back, but saw his eyes divert to Charon, standing to her side, with his characteristic stoicism and folded arms. She could tell Gob wanted to ask about him, but he didn't. Not yet, anyways. She turned to her bodyguard and smiled up at him.

"Hey, Charon, you can sit down if you like. Oh, and if you want anything, let me know and I'll ask Gob to get it for you." She offered, and he looked down to her. Even in the dim light, she could see his cold eyes.

"I will do whatever you wish of me, and want whatever you tell me to want." Alma sighed and put a hand to her forehead, but lowered it.

"Ok then, if you're going to be testy like that," she gave him an exasperated smile, "I order you to sit down if you feel like sitting down because I _wish_ for you to sit if _you_ feel like it. Alma paused and took a breath, "and I order you to tell me if you would like something because I _want_ you to want whatever _you_ want." It was a jumble of words, but it was good and specific enough she supposed, as the ghoul nodded in response. She turned and sat down at the bar stool closest to Gob, and smiled up at him. "How's it going for you, Gob?"

The ghoul glanced around, ensuring that Moriarty wasn't in the immediate vicinity, and leaned down on the counter with his elbows, looking happily exhausted, "it's going absolutely wonderful, of course. _Best_ damn life I've ever had." Of course, he was being sarcastic. She knew how harshly Moriarty treated Gob. It made her sad when she thought extensively about it. She heard Charon grunt as he fit himself on the bar stool next to her.

"I'm sorry, Gob... Oh, I have some news for you." She remembered talking to the ghoul woman back in Underworld at the inn. "You asked me to say hello to Carol in Underworld, right?" He nodded, a look of intrigue on his face. "Welllll, Carol says hello back! Greta, too. They both say they miss you," Alma leaned in close with a playful stage whisper, "but of course, _Carol_ misses you more."

"Thanks a lot, Alma. Fifteen years without me must have been tough on the business..." He looked happy, but there was sadness in his voice. "Did you tell them about...?"

Alma waved her hand dismissively, "I told them you found a job working for Moriarty. Nothing more."

"Good, I don't know what they would have done if... well, you know." Alma smiled and nodded softly. They both agreed that telling the women that he was sold as a _slave_ to Moriarty would have broken their hearts. It wasn't any use to break their morale when he still had a chance to get free and come back to them. "So, kiddo, I'm happy to see you safe and sound. Don't know how a little Vaultie like you managed to survive in the wastes and the ruins, but after hearing Three Dog talk about you, my suspicions of you are confirmed." Alma cocked her head, a playful, questioning smile on her lips. "I just knew you'd have a knack for surviving out there, is what I'm talking about. Yeah, you may have been raised in a Vault, but I could tell. You're a hardy one, that's for sure."

She blushed, waving her hand again. "Thanks, Gob. You've always been so-"

The back door of the saloon slammed open, and a very grizzled, gray-haired man bounded out, glaring at the bar with an expression of extreme malice, "_Gob!_ Who are you _fucking_ talking to! I don't pay you for-" the man's eyes caught on Alma, and his expression turned from anger to mischief, "Ah, your little _Vaultie_ gal's back from the wastes..." He sauntered up to the front counter, but as soon as he caught sight of Charon, he grimaced. "And it looks like Ahzrukhal's errand boy has come as well."

"He doesn't work for Ahzrukhal anymore, Mister Moriarty." Alma stated, and the man looked back at her.

"Oh really, lassie? Are you saying he works for _you_, now?" A grin formed on his face, and she nodded. "_Well_ now! What a surprise. Didn't know a lass like you could tame a beast like Charon, that's for sure." She felt that familiar, nagging sense of distaste for the man rise in her heart, but kept herself relatively calm. Out of the corner of her eyes, Gob retreated to the back of the saloon to polish wine bottles, avoiding any more punishment Moriarty might have hand out. "What did you do, little lady, to pull this monster out of that _asshole's_ greedy mitts?"

* * *

Charon inwardly scowled at the man before him. He and Moriarty hated each other. The beatings he gave the asshole had only reinforced his hatred for him, too. Moriarty was a known ghoul hater. Always called Gob a zombie or a shuffler, or some other name. He had been in the saloon enough times and at the convenient times where the man wouldn't hold back his venom for both he and the other ghoul. And, the fact that Charon had been the middleman and had the potential to... _offhandedly_ control shipments from Ahzrukhal and from Moriarty must have made the Irishman even more furious he couldn't lay a hand on him.

"It was simple enough; I had paid Ahzrukhal for Charon's contract." The smoothskin said, her second time this day explaining how she came to have himself as a bodyguard. "A thousand caps. He wanted two thousand, but I managed to lower the price." An amused, almost mocking grin spread on Moriarty's face.

"Oh ho! Aren't _you_ a little high-roller, buying off Azzie's dog," Moriarty congratulated with a syrupy tone. His employer blushed slightly. The girl was still susceptible to 'kind' words. Compliments. The man had to have her under his thumb, just like everyone else in the town. Charon figured the girl would be easy to manipulate anyways. "But _my_, now that Charon doesn't work for Ahzrukhal anymore, what does that mean about our shipments? Did Azzie tell you anything about that?" A confused look flowered on the smoothskin's face, and she shook her head.

"Shipments...? Did you and Ahzrukhal have a business going or something, Mister M?" She asked. He could hear a hint of guilt in her otherwise polite voice.

Moriarty nodded, crossing his arms and staring down at her, "Yes we did, lass. I wouldn't tell you otherwise, but now that you own Azzie's bouncer, this makes me wonder how the two of us will manage. Suppose _Charon_ has any idea about the shipments, now?" He turned a scathing look to Charon.

Charon stayed silent. His employer shook her head slightly at his silence, "Charon, you are the only one who knows what happens now, I would think. Go ahead and tell him everything."

"Ahzrukhal is dead, Colin." The look on Moriarty's face faltered. "You will be receiving no more shipments from the Ninth Circle, and no more caps. Your chems that you keep here will stay in your possession, and the alcohol will stay in Underworld. I do not know who has taken over the business since we left Underworld," Charon paused to breathe, not giving a shit that the man's face was growing as red as blood, "so you may or may not receive anything regarding the business you and Ahzrukhal had."

"Who the _fuck_ killed the shuffler?" Moriarty roared, throwing his hands up in the air, "what the fuck do you suppose_ I_ do, now that I have this fucking _cut_ in my income? Where the _fuck _else will I get the booze Azzie used to send?" His hands slammed on the bar, and he glared knives at the ghoul. Whatever patrons were in the saloon at the time scurried out the door, and in the background, Gob cringed.

Charon was about to speak up and possibly yell back at the bastard, but stopped when his employer's voice rang out from his side, "Mister Moriarty, calm down. Ahzrukhal was killed, yes, but that doesn't mean you can go ahead and scream like that to Charon." He could tell that as the girl spoke, the gears in her head were whirring at the speed of light. She was thinking about something. "Remember, I have his contract now, and if you insult him any more, I give him the permission to defend himself whichever way he sees fit." Charon looked to her and she looked at him, and he'd be damned; she _winked _at him. "Now, I know this is a terrible setback for you, Mister M. And, inadvertently, buying his contract was a setback for me." Her voice had a calm, business-like ring to it. Charon suddenly realized this was probably the same tone she used to wheedle his contract's price down to a thousand caps. "So, I propose, in order to keep your saloon running and myself a tad more financially stable, that I help supply you with any alcohol you may need."

Moriarty howled with laughter and wiped a fake tear from his eye, a huge grin on his mug. "Now the little Vaultie wants to run a_ business_ with me! How _sweet_." His tone was light and airy, but became serious as he leaned and braced his hands on the counter. "Ok, fine, sure, we can settle a deal. In any other situation, I'd say no, but you've got _guts_, lassie. Saving a town full of teenage idiots from the muties in Germantown? Going all the way to GNR and wandering through super mutant territory just to find some antennae bullshit and stringing it up in the Washington Monument? Finding yourself in that hellhole Underworld and buying its most lethal ghoul for only a thousand caps? That takes some damned luck, skill, and a nice dose of _insanity_." A sugary smile erupted from his lips again, "yes, yes, I suppose we can work together here."

Charon turned a suspicious glance at the girl beside him. His employer couldn't have possibly done all of that, save for the Underworld bit, on her own. She couldn't even keep her rifle working and her head was in the clouds so damned much she'd fall into anyone's filthy hands. Yet somehow, she apparently did all of that before hiring him. If it was true... as much as he didn't want to admit it, Moriarty was right; the smoothskin was lucky as hell and on the brink of complete insanity.

"Sounds good, Mister M." A smile spread on her lips, and for a quick moment, he thought he saw Moriarty's grin grow wider. "Our agreement will be this: you give me quotas to fill, a reasonably set time frame since we both know very well it takes time for a person like me to find what you need since I have no connections like Ahzrukhal did, I suppose, and you pay me for each shipment." Moriarty nodded his head in agreement, that seedy grin of his still plastered on his mug. He was working out the agreement in his head, no doubt. If his employer wasn't careful, the bastard would catch her in a loophole and squeeze her dry. "Also, I request you let my bodyguard and I stay in the saloon for free, until I work up the caps to buy the only available house in Megaton." The grin on the Irishman's face vanished.

"Oh wait now, little lassie. There's no way in hell you're staying in my saloon for _free_. I need caps for the traders out here, and you're going to have to pay an exorbitant fee if you want to stay in _my_ haven." He growled, yet somehow the smoothskin didn't lose her resolve.

"Mister Moriarty," she sighed, rubbing at her temple, "if this were any other situation, and I was any other person, yes, I would agree rent would be better." Despite the fact Charon wanted the smoothskin to have a rough time surviving with the people of the wastes so she would learn to toughen up, he started to wonder if she had the gift of turning anyone she was negotiating with into putty. Even though she was particularly inept at combat, he could tell she was a smart girl. "Yet, I'm not Ahzrukhal. I'm not holed up in the middle of the ruins, in a city the monsters wouldn't care to enter and most people would disregard ever existed. I don't have connections to various people in the ruins and wastes, and my own safety is in my admittedly slippery hands and in Charon's." His employer began to smile bemusedly. Mentioning her endeavors out in the wastes probably made her feel happy for herself. How she could though, he had no idea. Maybe all the wasteland horrors were just games to her. He wondered if she had ever been shot before. "I'm offering to risk mine and my bodyguard's life, out in the wastes and ruins, to bring you the alcohol you need to run your business. All I'm asking for in return is some caps and a place to sleep at night for the both of us. As soon as I've gained enough caps to buy a home, we'll stop sleeping in your saloon, you get the instant benefit of having those rooms open for business, and I could still bring your shipments until you organize a new system by yourself."

Even though Moriarty probably felt swindled, he knew the man wouldn't back down just yet. "And how, little Vaultie, do you expect me to trust _you_ with such an endeavor?"

"You've heard it on the radio, and you've said it yourself, Mister M," she smiled warmly, and Charon could easily tell she had the man right where she wanted him, "I've got an insane amount of luck and, well, I'm _'crazy',_" she made a quoting motion with her fingers in the air, "enough to do all of this for you. Not only that, but there will be no middleman. Charon will be at my side at all times and I'll hand deliver your stock for you." The Irishman sighed, a smirk of defeat on his face.

"Fine then, lassie. You have yourself a deal." His employer held out her hand, smiling. Charon realized that she wanted a handshake. To settle the deal. Moriarty looked at it quizzically, until he realized what she meant, and he took her hand in his own and they shook. It was a polite gesture _nobody_ in the wasteland followed. From her Vault days, he knew. "Now, payment. How about fifty caps for every ten bottles?" Charon wanted to smirk when the girl shook her head defiantly.

"Nope, a hundred caps for every ten bottles. And add fifty for each extra." The asshole started to fume, but she noticed it, and held up her palm, "sorry, but I would really like to have that house. Twenty shipments would be good enough to help me buy the house. I have approximately two hundred caps left over from buying Charon's contract, so, another two thousand will buy me the house and leave enough to sustain my bodyguard and I." Moriarty only let his frown lessen slightly. "Like I said, we're hand-sifting through the whole of the Capital Wasteland for your alcohol. We deserve as much."

"Fucking silver-tongued, you are." Moriarty grumbled, rubbing at his temples and closing his eyes. "Ok, ok, a _hundred_ for ten, and fifty for extra. You work out your own time frame; I don't want you to wheedle months to gather one shipment out of me, though. I've had enough business for the afternoon." He stood up straight and sighed. "I guess it serves me right for making you pay to get info about your dad. Karma sure is a bitch sometimes." The Irishman waved his hand and turned, returning to his personal quarters in the back of the saloon. Charon felt an odd sense of pride in his employer. Probably because she managed to completely flip Moriarty's power over her around and leave the bastard ass-backwards. Even Gob had an exuberant smile plastered on his face as he returned to the bar, slamming down two glasses of clear, purified water for he guessed himself and his employer.

"Man, the last time I saw Moriarty get chewed out like that, it was because he wouldn't pay Ahzrukhal the money the ass wanted the_ first_ time they tried to work out a deal." The ghoul leaned back down on the counter as he had before Moriarty came barreling in like a vicious dog, "They're on the house. Drink up, kiddo. You too, Mister Charon. You both deserve it."

He looked at his employer, and she almost laughed when she realized what he was asking. "Yes, Charon, I want you to drink the water. Silly man." He took a swig of the water and let his eyes drift from the smoothskin and Gob as they went back to talking. Okay, she was a hell of a lot smarter than he took her for. And skilled in the negotiating department. Good for her. Now, all she needed to do was learn to handle an ambush by raiders as professionally and precisely as she talked her way into getting fucking _paid_ by Moriarty.


	10. Bleaching

**AN:** You know, as much as I see love for Gob on this site, I don't ever actually see_ love_ for Gob. The poor guy needs some sort of genuine comfort in life, don't you think? Not that hyperfluffycuddly crap, not that hyperarrogantlylustful crap, and definitely not that hyperteasingdespairation crap. Just some actual nice moments where he doesn't feel like shit and the LW doesn't feel pitiful/horny/arrogant/cuddly. In other words, this chapter is very Gob-centric because I wanted it and I'm sure _one_ of you must have been curious about how he'd _really_ play out with Alma and Charon too.

Plus, Gob was an instant favorite of mine the very first time I talked to him in-game, so this feels justified.

* * *

**|Chapter Nine - Bleaching |**

Gob and Alma had talked far into the night; most of the patrons were gone, and Moriarty had gone to sleep in his office. Even Nova, the working girl, had pulled a drowsy, drunk man off into the main suite for the night. Save for her, Gob, and Charon, the whole of the town was asleep.

"So I yell at the man, _'No, I'm not a slaver, for the last time, I'm just here to help write a book!'_ but of course he doesn't listen, and I spend the rest of my time there hopping around the town like a frog trying to hide from his rifle and not blow my _legs_ off." She chuckled, her chin resting on the counter. Gob, himself, was leaning over her on his elbows, looking down at her slumped and tired form that was resisting the call for sleep. She liked the ghoul. He was fun to talk with, and when it was lights out for the rest of the town, he was happily awake. But only for her. And she knew it.

"I can't believe Moira sent you to that god-awful place." He mused, and she strained her eyes to look up at his face instead of his endearingly torn up elbows.

"Hey, hey," she said, "I figured it was a great way to introduce myself to the wasteland, you know?" She also liked Moira, too. "After that experience, it was a lot easier to raid that Super Duper Mart over the hill."

Gob visibly cringed, but for comedic effect. "That place is a raider camp! How the hell-"

A soft, out of character smile was on her lips, and she responded, "I had some help from a friend." Gob leaned down, straining to hear more from her. She suddenly felt bad she had her face on the counter. "They weren't from my vault, though, if you were gonna ask. But they're gone now. All I know is that they were on their way to some place... some sort of diner to the northeast."

"Interesting, girlie. What was their name?" He asked. She supposed he was wondering if he ever met them as a patron in Moriarty's. Alma knew that was, unfortunately for him, definitely not the case. Her friend wouldn't be caught dead in Megaton. She remembered them ranting about their viewpoints on the major settlements. They especially hated Rivet City. When Alma had asked why, they had only said it had to do with the security personnel there.

"Oh, well, they went by a nickname, and they said they never went into Megaton," she saw Gob about to ask another question, "or Underworld." Gob stood up straight, and she watched him hesitantly rub the crown of her head before grabbing up all of her water glasses.

"You're a strange girl, and I guess all of your friends are the same way." He said over his shoulder, and she only grinned. Her eyes were tired. "I mean, just look at _me_." The little joke had hit home, and she laughed softly. "But hey, you look dead tired. You should go to sleep or sumthin'. I'm sure Charon probably wants some shut-eye too, and even _my_ eyes are getting drier than usual." Alma was slightly, only slightly, surprised by his sudden authoritative voice.

"Yeah yeah, you're right." She groaned, sitting up. She looked to her right. Charon sat staring at the radio, and all three of them inadvertently lapsed into silence. Her silence from the fact she felt suddenly content with her chin now resting on her folded arms. Gob's silence from washing the glasses. Charon's silence because he seemed to embody the word itself. Three Dog's goodnight sendoff started up, and she suspected Gob and even Charon were listening just as attentively as she was.

- **Alright children. The moon is up, the wastes are cold, and it's time to snuggle up in your bedrolls and threadbare sheets for the night. Of course, regards goes out to those travelers with watch shifts out in the wastes and likewise to any little hovels that need a watchful eye over their _home sweet home_.** -

Alma stood up, yawning, and feeling glad she had a room to sleep in for the night, and a place to wash up in the morning; body _and_ clothes. Her gaze drifted over to Charon, who had stood up before she had and was waiting for her, arms folded. Then, she set her sights on Gob, leaning characteristically on the counter. Staring at the radio with some sort of intensity she wasn't used to seeing. Wishful hope and sadness.

- **We'll send you all off on some Billie Holiday, maybe some Ink Spots. Goodnight children, don't let the _radroaches_ bite.** -

Alma said goodnight to her friend and almost swayed up the stairs, her legs having lost their sturdiness from sitting for so long. She could hear her bodyguard right behind her, granting her space, of course, but shielding her like a fortress. God forbid she fall, then he'd actually have to _touch_ her and _catch_ her from breaking her neck. And she just _couldn't_ burden the guy with her fragile vitality.

She was sour about him. She had spent all evening thinking about his dislike for her, and the fact that he was probably annoyed at her even _at that moment_ made her, in turn, annoyed. Of course, her spiteful feelings would pass after a good, safe night's sleep, but she savored the taste of bothered-ness. It would make her life with him in tow more interesting if she had different feelings about him, she figured.

Even though there were only three rooms aside from the suite on the top floor, Charon wouldn't leave her side. When she asked why, he simply responded it was in his contract. When asked if the contract said Charon needed to be in the same room as her when she slept, he said it specified she should never leave his sights, and sleeping in any of the other rooms would break those rules. And he wouldn't break rules. And she wouldn't force him to sleep on the loft. But she wouldn't, Christ almighty, have him sleep on the bed near her, or even _sit_ on it near her. Not because she was bigoted or something like most people would think, that was something she would never want to be accused of, but because she was genuinely still angry at him and it was more decent for the both of them to have a few feet of vertical space between each other. Plus, if things had been different, say, he was instead a friend or a guest... or _female_, she would have gladly offered the bed for him in spite of any negative feelings.

So, she had him help her move a bedroll from one of the empty rooms to hers, and she specified that he could sleep on the roll on the floor if he wanted. And he told her he would want whatever she told him to want. And she once again recounted that she wanted him to do what he wanted since whatever he wanted was what she wanted.

It worked.

He sat on the bedroll, shotgun in tow, and seemed more than glad to stare at a hole in the wall as she undressed down to her bra and underwear and flung on a sort of teddy she kept tucked away in her bag. She, of course, never wore it when traveling, so it was vexing to have to undress with the ghoul in the room with her. But she had had sleepovers in the Vault, and simply alluded Charon's staying in her room to a particularly crowded sleepover.

* * *

He had never seen such a peculiar combination of Abraxo cleaner and soap and boiled water in all his life. The smoothskin sat in the little parlor-like area to the left of the bar, a tub of the concoction at her feet and the bar soap and a sleeve of her jumpsuit in her hands. He sat across from her, leaning on the table, watching her work at the clothing with some sort of obsessive vigor. Even her hair, dark brown and he supposed fairly long without being inhibiting, was tied up tightly in a rounded sort of ponytail and kept out of her face for ultimate focus on the clothing in front of her. The sleepwear, a sort of cottony white dress with straps instead of sleeves and extending down to her knees, was pulled back along her thighs to keep from getting wet. For the first time ever, he was watching a person clean their clothes.

For the record, he never counted falling into pools of irradiated water as a way to wash clothes, like most wastelanders did. Disgusting, really, but he couldn't say anything better about himself. Save for a mole rat hair brush he kept for scrubbing off any grime on his own clothing, he never washed it either. He didn't see a need to. His leather armor was like a second skin. But seeing some sort of luster come back to the smoothskin's jumpsuit made him think about how his own clothing would look if subjected to a just as rigorous cleansing. He then decided to fall back and say bullshit. Who gave a fuck if his clothes were clean or not? He didn't.

"In the Vault," his employer began to say, scrubbing hard at the cuff of the sleeve, "we had machines that administered fresh new vault suits whenever we needed them. But my dad and I liked to clean our clothing, both because it gave us something to do and made our suits feel more like possessions and less like sheddable skin." He watched her dunk the sleeve in the now lukewarm soapy mixture, and reach for the other sleeve. The skin on her hands was pink from the heat and slightly wrinkled. He chanced a glance down at his own hands, acknowledging that they never turned colors unless they were dirty or covered with blood.

"But why are you using Abraxo?" Gob had woken up before she had, ready to lavish his attention on her like a lovesick puppy. Charon, though annoyed, didn't mind as much. The boy never had a strong grudge against smoothskins, and he could tell that his employer was Gob's only true friend. Sure, in the later nights when he came by to hit up Moriarty for his chems, Nova would spend more of her time flouncing around the guy than in the daytime, but it never contributed to actual friendship. Whereas the whore put up a stunt claiming she hated ghouls until the latest hours of the night and then teasing the kid, his employer actually engaged in conversation with him. Told him stories. Listened to his own. Bothered to stay up later than usual for his company. Laughed at his jokes and comforted his pains. Charon witnessed it all that night after Moriarty had gone to sleep. That soppy sort of friendship that made Charon's stomach _curl_.

"When I read the print on the Washo box, it said it was 'super bleach'." The smoothskin responded, nodding her head to the blue detergent box on the table. He looked at her feet. They were bare, pink bottomed, and her toes even curled a bit as she continued washing. Acting on their own, almost. "I'll save that for white clothing."

"Why bother bleaching white clothes? They'll just get dirty again." Gob kept his eyes on her, and Charon kept his eyes on him. The only person in the bar that could have been a potential threat was him, anyways. The three of them were up early, around five in the morning. Three hours earlier than the morning before. Either she was planning some sort of long winded escapade somewhere, or she simply woke earlier in the more illogical situations. As in, waking up early in a safe environment and later in one that could chop her head off.

His employer started scrubbing at the high collar of her jumpsuit, and turned to face Gob. Since that night, she hadn't looked at Charon at all too much. "Like I said. They seem more valuable if you wash them. And they make you feel better, too." He watched her stop scrubbing and become quiet, examining Gob, and he inwardly cocked a brow. What was she doing? "Gob... maybe I could clean your shirt for you? It would be my pleasure, you'll understand what I mean when you put it back on clean."

The ghoul balked at the idea and immediately shook his head no. But the smoothskin had persisted, and after a while, Gob was bare chested, and would have been blushing all kinds of red if his skin was still intact. Charon looked away at that point. He couldn't tell if it was flirtation or humiliation. Thank the unnamed god out there that no other smoothskin was there to make fun of the boy. And thank that pretentious deity that even if other smoothskins saw the kid, they wouldn't be able to see the scars only ghouls could see.

* * *

When she saw Gob's chest, the torn flesh underneath the grimy shirt, she hadn't even winced. There was definition, she could see that well, but it hid behind grayed skin and red muscle. _If he had normal skin_, she thought, _he'd probably be blushing right now_. She invited him to come and watch her, but Gob kept himself leaning over the counter for the rest of that time, nervously checking the stairs for Nova or behind his shoulder for Moriarty. She didn't blame him.

"Gob, could you get me another bucket and a large glass, please?" She asked, and immediately he handed the items to her, once again taking refuge behind the counter. She was going to bleach his shirt from its mottled and... bloodstained gray into a white that nobody in the wasteland ever saw before. Alma openly instructed, to Gob, how to handle bleach. She figured Charon wouldn't care for her lecture on housekeeping.

"When you're washing clothes that need to be bleached," she dunked the shirt in the tub of Abraxo and warm water, and scrubbed at it with the bar of soap, "most people say to just toss the clothes in with the bleach and be done with it." The shirt was getting cleaner, she knew, but she supposed Gob didn't, because when she looked up at him, he looked both paranoid and skeptical. Of course, though, the fabric wasn't white yet. "But my dad and I, we would wash the clothes, and_ then_ bleach them, for extra cleanliness."

Her next step involved pouring only a little powdered bleach, which she enunciated the importance of it highly on, and she scrubbed the shirt only with her hands in the tub. "Don't look directly into the tub when you wash with bleach, though, and try not to breathe in the fumes. The chemicals will make your head hurt like mad." She cautioned, yet she knew he didn't mind much. Radiation was worse than bleach, she supposed.

After a few moments of scrubbing the shirt, she pulled it out, smiling happily. The shirt was as white as snow (those ice crystals that were soft like powder, something she learned about in school). She wrung the shirt as hard as she could, and even though she advised that he not wear it yet since it was still damp, Gob had thrown the shirt back on and smiled broadly at her, both out of thankfulness and relief that Moriarty, Nova, or any patrons hadn't sauntered in the saloon. She smiled back, and they spent the rest of that morning talking about washing clothes.

Charon sat next to her as silent as ever, and she wondered to herself if he would ever let her clean his armor, if not clothes, or at last teach him to. Perhaps it would cheer him up as much as it did with Gob. One day, she'd ask him. But for now, she didn't want to spoil his mood. He had seemed to sit up much straighter after the bleaching of Gob's shirt.


	11. Springvale

**AN:** Fiiiinally you get a chapter! I'm sure all of you are excited. Make sure to read and review, all of you lurkers, it really does help motivate me. :C

* * *

**|Chapter 10 - Springvale|**

It had been around two fifty-eight in the afternoon that day when they had finally left the saloon. When Gob had asked his employer where the two were going, she said her plans she had told him from the night before were slightly altered. As far as he could tell, instead of heading to Rivet City, they'd probably find themselves by Dunwich or Dan's by nightfall. The locations in themselves were fucking insane; one a building infested with ferals, and the other a small gated community intent on spreading their "country" to the rest of the wasteland, in due time. Even though he wasn't patriotic, he thought it ridiculous that they were trying to raise a country in a country. Granted, maybe he could have been wrong, as he never stepped into the town, but it's not like he didn't regard the fact that since the wastes were crazy, so were the people in it.

Like Moira.

* * *

_"Oh! Hello my bestest buddy in the whole of the wastes! How are you doing? Good I hope!"_

_"Ah, yes, Moira, we're doing really wel-"_

_"We? Who's we?... Ohhhhh, I see, hidin' in the darkness, were ya? Don't be shy now, because I'm not a bad person. Alma dear, who is this strapping man you've got tailing you?"_

_"His name is Charon, Moira. I think you might have seen him before; he came to Megaton a lot in his old job."_

_"Oh, well,_ _I wouldn't know, I'm always tinkering away in this old place. And even if I did see, with all the ghoulies in the world, I wouldn't have known this one is a friend of yours. My, look at that skin! Does he mind if I just give it a poke?"_

_"Oh no, no no, I don't know about that. He's a partner of mine; he's my bodyguard. I don't think he would want you to do such a thing, you know. Got better things to worry about, need to be on our way soon, all that stuff."_

_"Yes yes I see, I'm sorry, dear. I've hardly had the chance to meet a ghoul, you know, and I got a little too excited. Well, it's nice to meet you Mister Charon. Perhaps when your employment with Alma is over, you could stop by and help me out- Oh I have an even better idea! Alma, you're a creative person, just as good with a notebook as with a sketchpad. Youuu should help me with a little study I want to get going on about ghouls."_

_"If you want me to ask him to walk into a pit of radioactive waste-"_

_"No no no no dearie, I would never dream of such a thing. I'd rather do that myself, if I were a ghoul. No, just, if it's okay with him of course, get me some sketches of how a ghoul's body is different than a person's in appearance, but still formed and functioning the same as any other person. Anatomical research you know. People need to know that ghouls are in fact people too, and we should get rid of any ridiculous myth about them being any different than us. This will be our first step in... in..._ ""_People of the Wastes: From Raiders to Ghouls, by Moira Brown, Co-Authored by Alma Adler""!"_

_"You're going to write another book?"_

_"I think now that I've got you, I'll write lots of books! With the ongoing research for the Survival Guide being so significant, why not write more? I'll admit, intermingling with raiders and slavers may be harder to do, but think of the benefit it will give to the people! If you could please, go ahead and get those sketches for me, alrighty?"_

* * *

He had to accept the fact he was thankful that his employer knew him well enough and was decent enough to keep the woman from touching him. But, _sketching_ him? Like some sort of _animal_ on display in a zoo? He would rather cut off her hands than let her get anywhere near that sketchbook of hers. He hardened his gaze at her back as they walked down the street. He knew she wouldn't do it without his consent. The smoothskin didn't like to tread on thin ice, and Moira's request would have been like throwing a super mutant on a floor made of glass and hoping it wouldn't shatter. He didn't like thinking of the same phrase twice, yet he suddenly felt a tad stupid for not coming up with a better analogy.

The street they were on... it was more like a dirt path with some pavement here and there. If anyone asked him the street name, he couldn't tell them. Decimated like the rest of the wastes. There were a few ranch style houses on his right, and a small rocky outcropping on his left; two storied, gutted and burned houses on top of that. Behind them sat the rest of the skeletal neighborhood, coated in dirt and grime. A small Red Rocket gas station, sans gas and working automobiles. Further back was the hilly, boulder covered, red rock path to Megaton, or if you took a left, the road to the Super Duper Mart past the farmhouse on the hill. If you took a right, you'd follow a graveyard of houses to a road going uphill, curving and aiming to the highway, but broken halfway up.

Welcome to Springvale.

To their right, past the houses and down the hill, was the elementary school. If he looked hard enough at its blown out left half, he would see the group of raiders that had taken up residence in there.

The smoothskin never looked at the school.

They weren't on their way to Rivet City. They were going north, northwest. In the open, scorched, bare lands of the wastes. Susceptible to anything and everything. Raiders, rogue wastelanders, mole rats or bloatflies, they were easy pickings. And yet, the girl still kept her eyes on her damn Pip-Boy, stumbling when they hit rocky land. She wasn't as upset at him by that time. She talked to him some, acknowledged his presence. Whatever she had been upset about wasn't a bother to her anymore. Whether or not he _cared_ was another matter.

Their trek was accompanied by Cole Porter's _Anything Goes_. Another one of the smoothskin's favorite songs, apparently. She seemed happy again, with that weird optimism, and sang along to the song when she didn't get lost in her Pip-Boy. Once again broadcasting their position to every fuckwad in the wastes. And this time, they didn't have anything to hide behind if someone decided to blast them with assault rifle fire.

"You know, Charon," she said over her shoulder; "this song, if you think about it, really fits 2277 America, doesn't it? Or at least the Capital Wasteland."

She had taken up the habit of calling the wastes the same name Three Dog did. Hardly anyone really, _seriously_ referenced it as such. Nobody cared to.

"I wouldn't know, I don't listen to music." He wouldn't have responded, but she had told him that this day was a _respond-without-being-ordered-to-do-so-beforehand_ day. Which meant, in other words, respond whenever she wanted conversation.

"But, didn't Ahzrukhal have GNR playing constantly in the Ninth Circle? You can't say you never listened to music. It's physiologically impossible." His employer stepped around a patch of crab grass. He stomped on it.

"Yes, he played the radio, but I never paid attention to the words. I had more important matters on hand at that time, Miss."

They came across the highway. In all of its crumbling, broken, threatening to collapse glory. The steel framework and girders sat exposed in the stagnant air, the cement crumbled away in the supports. To their right, it sloped precariously, and its broken pieces clogged up the Potomac. To their left were more hills and the eventual ramp up to the highway. His employer stopped, right underneath the giant deathtrap, and turned and cocked an eyebrow at him. Behind her were the yellow and red plains of the wastes, a few farmhouses beyond and what looked like a neighborhood in the not so far distance. The Potomac pooled pathetically past the unintentional dam.

"Important matters like staying near that wall and threatening everyone you saw, huh?" She said, annoyed, but she stopped herself. "It's okay, I get it. Some people just don't have the time for music. But_ I_ do. And soon enough you'll know the words to _every_ song." Yet, her mouth changed from a smirk to a terrified frown. She paled. Stuttered. Stumbled back and pointed a finger behind him.

Shit.

"_Fuck_, what is it?" He roared, swinging his shotgun in his hands and wheeling around, immediately pulling her behind him. He kept a death grip on her wrist with one hand and raised the shotgun with the other, pissed as fuck that some asshole decided to sneak up on him. He could feel her trembling, and her free hand gripped his shoulder lightly.

But as the haze of confusion and paranoia diminished, and immediate gunfire didn't resound, Charon realized there wasn't a raider or super mutant behind them. Not even a feral. In fact, the bare earth was void of anything with the capacity to kill. There was nothing.

"What did you see," he growled, pulling his eyes away for a quick moment to look at her over his shoulder. She turned her face from him and looked to their left

"In the brush... over there." She raised her hand and aimed it at the downhill slope that lead to the Potomac. Charon gazed down, looking hard into the crab grass and rock for movement. Searching it. He pulled her, even though she gave some resistance, along with him to the slope to get a better view. Her hand gripped his shoulder again, but harder, and he could feel her shift around to look into the brush with him. He wanted to know what she was afraid of. He had never seen that fear on her smoothskin face before. What had she seen?

His employer gasped and tried to pull away from his grip, but without avail. He felt her cling hard to his back, even pressing the side of her head against it and whimpering, all within a few seconds.

Whatever it was, she had seen it coming before he had.


	12. Intimacy

**AN: **I really enjoyed writing this chapter. READ AND REVIEW. That is all.

* * *

**|Chapter 11 - Intimacy|**

Charon felt something as sharp as a blade try to stab into his boots, and he kicked the object away, caught slightly off balance by his employer cowering behind him. It had come from below. He looked down, suspecting a camouflaged_ something_ trying to nick his ankles.

Instead, he got a blue insect the size of a dog, without the height.

It was a fucking _radscorpion_.

"_This_ is what you're so scared of?" He suddenly felt very, very pissed off. He could feel her head nod up in down in confirmation. The blue bug rattled a hiss and raised its pincers, skittering backwards, stinger raised. It looked almost _toy like_. Charon felt an intense hatred rise up in his chest. But of course it wasn't for the radscorpion. It was for _her_.

"Please, Charon, shoo it away or _something_, I don't know, get it _out_ of here." She begged, holding tighter still to his back. Her touch was venomous. The insect had backed further into the brush. It looked both terrified and on the verge of sacrificing itself to the god of radscorpions. He felt no pity for the foolish animal. Charon cocked his shotgun, ready to blow its face off. Yet his employer whimpered a weak "don't" and reached for his arm. She was fucking trying to_ stop_ him from killing the pest. But he didn't listen. She didn't order him to _not_ kill it.

Suffice to say, yellow-green, radioactive-looking blood had splattered all over the downhill slope. Covered the crab grass, and even managed to splash on a tree trunk. Ragged pieces of blue carapace flew and rolled down the hill, yellowy tendrils of inner flesh still hanging on. The scorpion slumped to the ground, claws and stinger astray, and even began to slide down the hill some, its slick blue stomach helping its corpse in the endeavor. He felt the smoothskin shift and let go of him, venturing out from behind him.

"Oh... I didn't want you to kill it." She mumbled, looking down at the blasted to hell scorpion. He wanted to punch her.

"It frightened you, and it was going to attack us. You told me to do something about it, so I did." His employer shook her head at the view of the dead insect. All that was left of its face, or head, was a yellow mass of scorpion flesh, some chunks of carapace and kicked up dirt mixed in. He watched her kneel beside it, setting her bag down and staring at it closely. Not a moment ago, she was fucking_ terrified_, yet now she was looking at it like it was a dearly departed friend.

"I guess I can't blame you for that." She muttered, a frown hinting at the corners of her lips. The smoothskin reached for one if its pincers, then decided to abandon the idea and pull her hand away. Her face was still red from the adrenaline, yet she had some sort of conflicted, studious look in her eyes. Then, she set her sights on its stinger, lightly brushing her fingers across the non-dangerous parts. After a while of her visual necropsy, she stood up, her bag coming with. The silence of the wastes overcame them both, until they both realized _Anything Goes_ was still playing.

The smoothskin, in some sort of respect for the dead bug before her, he guessed, turned off the radio and motioned for him to follow her through the crumbling arches of the highway.

* * *

Alma stood on the small rocky cliff with Charon, arms folded and pondering what could lay behind the wire mesh door set into the cliff face. It was around six in the afternoon, the sun setting in the distance and turning the yellow haze of the sky into a burning amber. Their backs faced a dried out riverbed and lake, remnants of boats buried in the ground and small docks still managing to hold up after two hundred years of decay. Her Pip-Boy had lead them to this spot, exactly where Three Dog had indicated. Apparently, this was Hamilton's Hideaway.

"My map says this is the place." She turned to Charon, and he looked down at her. "Supposedly, inside this cave is a weapons store. Three Dog gave me the code to unlock it, so we can go ahead and get whatever we need to get to Rivet City."

"Do you think we will need whatever is in there just to follow the Potomac?" He asked, and she shrugged.

"I'm sure we won't need _loads_ of stuff. But hey, we now have a weapons store all to ourselves. Sure, it isn't close to any settlements, but it could be like a storage unit or something for us." Alma walked up to the mesh and lifted the metal latch, pulling the door open. It was incredibly dark inside, but a ways into the cave there was what looked like a metal catwalk , and some still-working floor lights. She looked over her shoulder at her bodyguard, then turned and stepped inside the cave. She could hear Charon follow, and the swift shutting of the wire mesh door, the latch clanging back where it had belonged.

It was much too dark inside to go by the sporadic lights alone. A halogen lamp, or even a flashlight would have been better than what the Pip-Boy had. It simply had a button that changed the intensity of the backlight, from outdoor, to indoor, to night. She flicked it to night mode, wondering offhandedly if she should try to find a halogen lamp when they returned to D.C. The pale white glow hit the dank rock and metal, improving her vision immensely. She could even see the shadows of empty cola bottles and bags of chips underneath the catwalk. The glow also hit something else, making the uneven edges of it gleam as if it were slick with water. It was only a few feet ahead of them, and she squinted her eyes to get a more detailed look at the mass.

A heart-stopping hiss resounded and she almost screamed when a bluish black pincer lashed out from the darkness. Charon had immediately jumped in front of her and smacked the claw away with the butt of his shotgun. She heard him pull the trigger. When the blast had exploded out of the barrel, it had lit up the area around them and she suddenly felt very, _very_ sick. The light bounced off _three_ other black masses ahead of them, hitting the contours of the claws and tails with an odd shimmer. The cave was infested with radscorpions.

"Charon... could you... could you get rid of them please?" She asked as he readied his shotgun to shoot into the darkness, having seen the others as well.

"Anything for _you_, Miss." He sounded cold and hard. Annoyed. Perhaps even exhausted. "But you will need to stay by me at all times. That light is all we have, and I need it to kill them efficiently." Another hiss cut through the silence of the cave, echoing. Intensifying. She didn't want to move, but she felt Charon's hand, like before, latch on her left wrist. He pulled her to him and she watched him pull her arm in front and aim it like a flashlight. Her hand hung limp, and she dug her fingers of her right hand in his shoulder for the second time that day.

To some people, seeing a man shield a girl from danger and hold her so close to him, and seeing her hold on tight and press her cheek to his back... to some, that would be an intimate moment. The power of the image could make any person wish they were the ones in those shoes. But _this_? This wasn't intimate. Charon had stiffened like he had before when she had hid behind him, and he radiated the signal that he didn't want to be touched, just like before. He only let her hold on to him because he needed to make her feel safe. It was in his contract. She knew this.

Another blast of his shotgun echoed, and she heard a twitching body fall to the floor of the catwalk. The sound of the insect hissing and flailing in its death throes made her gag, but she wouldn't dare vomit on her bodyguard. How awful for him it would be to not only have a weak, terrified employer, but one sick to her stomach, too? She decided to keep her stomach contents from spitting out of her mouth. As much as the ghoul didn't like her, she wouldn't dare do anything to upset him.

They stumbled back in unison when the razor sharp stinger of another grazed his waist. He almost seemed to roar with fury as he pumped the culprit full of lead. She hoped he wasn't poisoned. Stimpaks had a harder time curing poison than just normal bodily injuries. Another shot bored a hole through the back of one other. The three were dead, but they could hear the skittering of reinforcements deeper in the cave. She really hoped he hadn't been poisoned.

"We won't be able to go further if we stay here, we need to keep going." He told her over his shoulder, and she felt him lurch forward. She didn't question his logic. He was the only thing separating her from the ungodly monsters making their way through the darkness. At that moment, she relied heavily on him to keep her from fainting and being eaten or some other horrific death that the radscorpions could cause.

Perhaps this _was_ intimate, after all.

They walked down the catwalk together, going deeper into the cave and leaving the corpses behind in the inky blackness. The sound of giant insect claws on metal still echoed towards them, which made her worry they could come in from all sides, but Charon was smart and stayed by the walls. The spaces they were walking in were claustrophobia incarnate. Low cave ceilings and thin corridors. Tight curves and no way to see if the next corner ahead didn't have an army of the beasts waiting for them.

She held her breath in horror-struck anticipation. As they turned a corner, her light caught in the green eyes of two more scorpions, and she was sure one was hiding and waiting to crawl out from a metal door set into the wall. Her legs almost locked into place when that god awful hissing reached her ears, and her heart raced again. To see the monsters in the darkness, knowing one could very well crawl out of the metal works, it took her mind into a world filled with terror and an inability to acknowledge Charon yelling at her to stay awake.

"Hey, _hey_! Don't faint, get _up_! I can feel you starting to fall back there; I can't fight like this if you faint!" Her brain said to hell with him trying to wake her up. She could feel her knees buckle and her grip on his shoulder weaken. Her mind filled with the images of what would happen if a scorpion was behind them both. Hissing and lunging at them. Oozing out of the walls, dropping from the ceiling. A blast of a shotgun echoed in her ears, but it couldn't stop her body from shutting down. It was muffled, almost soothing, some sort of weird noise that didn't bother her at all.

"Wake up, Alma, _wake up_!"

* * *

His employer had slumped to the floor in one swift motion, and so had the light. He couldn't see a thing. And she was out cold. How the fuck could these bugs scare her that much? But he couldn't get pissed now, not at her. He needed to get her awake.

"_Fuck!_" He felt a sting, a twisting blade in his chest, and the sudden burning feeling of poison entering his body. Charon kicked the stinger away and shot up the scorpion responsible until its upper half was a yellow, fleshy pulp. The one in the doorway before them leaped out, claws aimed at his face. His steel-toed boot connected with its underbelly and sent it vaulting into a wall. It slid down, twitching and hissing, half of its limbs stuck in the metal railing and its other claw flailing to make a hit, stinger twisting in excitement. The beast was fucking _immobile_, but it still wouldn't go down without a fight. He felt blood pour from his chest and cursed, feeling his limbs begin to ache with the poison. His shotgun executed the last scorpion ruthlessly, leaving its stomach leaking entrails all over the catwalk.

By now, the poison was all over his body, making his muscles cramp up altogether in some sort of chorus of misery. But he couldn't let it hinder him. Poison wasn't his concern. He could tough it out, he was stronger than a smoothskin. But _his _smoothskin...

He needed to wake her up.

Charon grabbed her up in his arms, deciding to take the risk of holstering his shotgun behind his back and carrying both of their bags, and took her through the metal door before them into a room that conveniently had bedrolls lined up against the metal walls. A tricycle was twisted and convoluted in a pile of trash. Tons of papers and books scattered the floor, and so did the splatters of dried blood. The place must have been a safe house before, and was now a shell filled with blood and scorpions.

He set her down on a bedroll and went back to the door, pulling it shut and twisting the valve to lock it. He turned back around to see her sickly, pale form on the bedroll, and walked back to her side. He knelt and reached for her face, pulling up on her brow and seeing her eye look around lazily, pupil dilated. Charon grimaced at the thought of her being so easily overcome by the mere sight of radscorpions. If this was how she acted with normal ones...

He reached in her bag. She had to have something. His fingers involuntarily twitched as he searched the pockets for something to wake her up. The poison was really pulling at his muscles now, and was making him burn up with the sensation of razor cuts all over his body. He could even feel his toes seem to twist in pain; again, involuntary. Charon opened the far right pocket and was greeted with a plethora of bandages, cotton balls, bottles of antiseptics and he guessed pain-relief pills. Deeper in the bag his fingers enclosed around a metal tin sitting alongside a few stimpaks.

Curious, he lifted the tin up to find words on its top, cursed at the lack of lighting, and held his employer's Pip-Boy arm to it. The white glow fell on the crisp black letters and he cocked his eyebrow at the absurdity of its advertising.

**_VAPORELLE_**

**_AROMATIC SMELLING SALTS_**

_with** LAVENDER **and** LEMON OIL**_

_Scared that your wife, children, etc. might faint from the shock of bombs landing on our precious American soil? Not with **VAPORELLE**, you aren't! **Vaporelle(TM) Aromatic Smelling Salts** are the go-to solution for waking up those who faint or are in the process of doing so. Simply open the tin, grab one of the capsules, and snap it open under the nose of your patient, and they'll be awake within a moment's notice!_

**_Vaporelle(TM) Aromatic Smelling Salts_**_ are the perfect brand of smelling salts to grace your hands. They are highly superior in pungency and portability, are laced with high-grade ammonia scented with lavender and lemon oils, encased in dainty silk coverings, and are sold in sets of twelve._

_A must-have for the ladies during the Nuclear Holocaust, always keep a tin on hand when in your Vault, and encourage everyone to think likewise!_

Charon opened the tin and was indeed greeted with two neatly-aligned columns of capsules half as long as his forefinger. Except, one column was missing two capsules. He only slightly wondered where they had gone as he snatched up the third one to be used. He held it under her nose and snapped it as easily as a pencil. The liquid soaked the covering instantly, and he could even get slight whiffs of it from where he was kneeling as he felt the glass shards begin to stick into the silk.

Immediately, her nose inhaled deeply and she jerked, opening her eyes with a confused look on her face. Her hand flew to her nose and he pulled the smelling salt away, letting her sit up and cough, sniffing and rubbing at her nose vigorously.

"Alma... are you okay?" He asked uncharacteristically personally, and she looked up at him, the glow of her Pip-Boy illuminating the confusion leaving her eyes. She smiled softly.

"Yeah, I am." Her eyes then found the spot where he was bleeding profusely from the radscorpion's sting. They then saw him holding the tin of smelling salts, and her bag laying open. "The real question is," she began, and he watched her rummage in the pocket, pull out a stimpak, and motion for him to lean in, "are _you_ okay?" The smoothskin coughed into her shoulder, then reached for his wound. Her fingers dug at his armor's fabric and he watched silently as she found a patch of "unbroken" skin immediately over the wound. She pushed the needle into his flesh delicately, and pushed on the plunger, the medicine immediately shooting into his body and slowly working on making the pain subside.

They sat in a strange silence as she sopped up the blood around the wound with cotton balls. And they both watched as the skin around the hole in his chest seemed to thread itself across said gap and reconstruct itself immediately. It was a patch of new, soft skin. Skin that would immediately decay in thirty minutes. Charon, for once, didn't feel annoyed at her. No anger. Nothing. He had absolutely nothing to scold her for or complain to himself about. He couldn't explain it. Somehow, her fright, her clinging to him and digging her face in his back, her fainting, the struggle against the particularly retarded radscorpions, her revival, and this stupid little exchange of words... somehow, the combination of those events completely voided his mind from having any negativity towards her. He couldn't think up a single thing to hate her for at that moment. At that, dare he _fucking_ say it,_ intimate_ moment.

Charon noticed she was looking at him expectantly, waiting for an answer to her question.

"... Now I am."


	13. Debris and Rubble

**AN: **I hope I accentuated well enough on how crazy Hamilton's Hideaway can be. Sort of. Because it's not crazy. At all. It's a boring as fuck tunnel cave thing. Read and review, seriously.

* * *

**|Chapter 12 - Debris and Rubble|**

"If you have to, close your eyes." His employer nodded, listening to his advice raptly. They were going to be prepared. He would rather drag her out of the place altogether and be done with it if she wasn't so determined on finding that weapons store. So he was to, under her order, instruct her on how to keep them both from running into the same problems again. It was determined she was fucking terrified to the point of fainting of radscorpions. They both learned that the hard way. "But do not let go of me ever if you want to make it to the storage. I hold your left arm up," she waved it in the air, a look of optimism back on her face, trying to push away the paranoia, "and you keep your right arm on my shoulder, waist, what have you." Her right hand twitched in recognition.

"Charon, I just don't want to hear them. It makes my imagination..."

He frowned slightly; "Miss, it will be much harder for us to work as a team if you can't listen for them. We are in the darkness, we need to rely on that sense the most. It's advisable that you keep your ears alert for them, in case they come up from behi-" The smoothskin jerked and grimaced, and he stopped before he finished the word. The thought easily frightened her. He was hoping there were hardly any more in the cave. "Right. I am not the one to decide, as you know, Miss."

She thought for a moment, and reached to mess with a few loose strands of dark brown hair by her ear. Those goddamn ears. "If I can keep my eyes closed, I'll listen for them." His employer nodded to confirm it to herself. "I'll know what they are, but I can imagine them as a snake or something instead of, well, yeah." A _snake_? She was afraid of scorpions, but not snakes? Afraid of scorpions, but not ferals or super mutants? Fucking- "I'll listen, and try to keep awake. Just, kill them quickly, okay? And please, don't let them even brush up against me." He nodded in an agreement he couldn't refuse even if he wanted to. But he really did agree. Killing the bastards quickly would save from another uncomfortable situation like before and keep both of their minds in the right place. She stood up from the bedroll, snatching up her duffel bag in one quick motion. She recovered amazingly well from smashing her fucking head into a metal catwalk.

He stepped back to give her space and watched her gather her bearings, dusting off her vault suit and unsuccessfully rubbing away some yellow blood on her left sleeve. She was trembling. An internal smirk arose, and he felt amused that as hard as she tried to appear unshaken, she was still very much rocked to the core. But... it wasn't spiteful amusement. He wasn't laughing at her fragility. She looked like shit, but he couldn't come up with some derogatory way to allude her to said excrement. Charon frowned, displeased that his venom he held for her wasn't functioning right. Any time he tried to think of something nasty, it fizzled out. It was annoying. Even his emotions toward her; he still had no anger. No annoyance that she hindered him from killing the radscorpions. No sense of inconvenience. He was just,_ fine_ with her. He decided it was the poison and the remnants of the smelling salt that were keeping him from thinking normally.

His employer strode somewhat confidently to the door across the room and motioned for him to do the honors of opening it. He obliged and the metal door rolled open to another room filled with darkness. Save for a lantern on a broken card table and a corpse at their feet. Charon watched her grimace, yet bend over and examine it. From behind, it looked like the person nearly stumbled and had a fatal fall. Yet a pool of dark, coagulated blood rested around their head. When she reached at the head to pull on it and see the face from the side, it became evident that there _wasn't_ a face. Save for bloody bone and scraps of torn and dried muscle, their cheeks, nose, forehead, brow, chin, and every other little bit of flesh had been effectively shaved off from their skull. Even their eyes were missing, pockets of dark red, decaying flesh in the orbits where he presumed the scorpions couldn't reach with their mandibles. A truly horrific sight, and one that an unprotected hand shouldn't touch. The smoothskin reared up, her lips twisted in disgust, but not in terror. He wondered if she had simply been hiding her fright, when she spoke up to prove otherwise.

"Well, at least all of the face is gone." Charon followed her as she stepped over the body, and watched her veer for a large blue door with an actual handle on the other side. "If it had been, say, half on and half off, I don't think I would have been able to hold in lunch." His employer... wasn't right in the head. She was supposed to be some untouched, saintly vault dweller, yet she reacted to corpses and super mutants as if she had been living in the wastes all of her life. He stopped walking, unintentionally, to look at her, trying to see what kind of game she was playing. It was like she was a different person every time they came across something new. The smoothskin turned and looked at him, "Something on your mind?"

"Yes."

"Well then, feel free to speak it." A slight smile flashed on her lips.

"If it is okay for me to ask," he started, and she nodded, "how come you weren't disturbed by that corpse?" The smile grew wider, and in the glow of her Pip-Boy and the lantern, he could see her cheeks turn red.

"I was disturbed, yes." She folded her arms and looked back at the body. Its head was still turned on its side. "But things like that don't bother me too much because, well, my father used to be a doctor; a surgeon. A scientist. All sorts of things that had to do with science, almost." Her hand motioned in a quick flick for him to come closer, and he suddenly remembered he had feet. He moved to the door, keeping his eyes on her. "Growing up as the daughter of the resident surgeon, you grow some immunity to things like that. From actual patients to books, holotapes, and videos I used to sneak away from my dad, I saw a lot of things that would make a normal person's stomach flip."

"But this person's face was _torn off_." He countered, "I wouldn't think something like that would be seen as scientific."

"No, I'm sure it's not," she agreed, nodding in thought, "but, I don't react to the aftermath of something that would tear a person's face off. I would be more scared of watching it happen." His employer smiled again and told him to open the door. "We can talk about it later, right? Let's get to those weapons." Charon felt her come behind him and watched her left arm rest itself on his shoulder, felt her right hand hold his other shoulder firmly. "I'm going to close my eyes now, okay?"

"Right." His hand twisted the handle and pulled the door back. He was greeted with the sight of a sewer tunnel piled with debris. Cola cans, food, clothing, rubble, shed radscorpion skins; all coalesced into one huge mound of trash to his right, completely covering the rounded end of the tunnel. More piles of filth stretched to his left, glass and rebar mixing together to make the sewer floor a dangerous minefield of sharp, possibly impaling objects. Slime and muck still rested in the bed of the sewer, but he expected it to be the excrement of the scorpions, not remnants of humanity's past.

A brutally torn apart corpse of one of the insects sat tucked in a rounded corner as he led them both into the tunnel, and he noted there wasn't any evidence of gunfire on the walls or in the body; the scorpions had torn that particular one apart by their own will. As he waded through the trash, quietly advising his employer to step carefully as well, he saw the carnage more clearly. Two of its limbs had been twisted off, and the rest were crushed. Its claws had been cut off and its stinger and carapace was punctured and filled with decaying blood and flesh. The cold, lifeless eyes glistened in the light of the Pip-Boy, and he felt relieved the smoothskin's eyes were closed. Shooting them was one thing, but he felt that her seeing the results of anarchy amongst the bugs would be just as bad. She never said she felt the same way about people as she did about giant insects.

The tunnel pivoted to his right, and he was greeted with the sight of rows of utility doors and, of course, more trash. His employer's Pip-Boy cast a sickening glow on the doors, strong enough to make them shine but not strong enough to cut through the darkness of the rooms they led into. As they passed by, he turned his sights to each door, shotgun poised. Scorpions, when filled with a sense of recklessness, were quick, and could very well orchestrate some sort of surprise assault on the two of them. It was information he learned from a previous employer, and though he spent a long while in the ruins, he never forgot it.

What looked like the limb of a huge insect skittered out of the light as he swung it to another door. He tensed, and felt the smoothskin do so as well, probably feeling his muscles leap with adrenaline. But as he came closer to the door, the light fell on a chocolate-colored radroach, shirking away from the brightness, pulling a shredded soda can along with it in its mandibles. He decided to let the thing go on its way; it clearly wasn't in the mood for getting itself killed. Charon turned and continued down the pseudo hallway of doors, and looked at the peculiar sight of a dust-covered toy car, half of it in blackness and half of it poking out of the room it led in to. Its shadow shifted from its front to its back as he moved, sitting still and silent, abandoned. Left behind by a child, a child that was most likely dead.

Sewers weren't good bomb shelters.

The tunnel branched at the end, to his right and left. The right was blocked off by a mass of cement and rubble, but the left continued on and quickly swept into a right turn. He moved to follow it when, as he looked back at the debris, he noticed the colors of the rubble had changed. On the side he had first seen, it had been a cold gray shrouded in shadows. But the side he could see now was bathed in an orange light. The light itself leaked from the wall the rubble laid against, streaming out of an unconventional man-made tunnel.

"Miss," he grunted quietly, still listening for scorpions, "what did Three Dog say about what the store looked like?"

She turned her head to his voice, eyes still closed, and responded, "Not much, really. The coordinates he gave me, though, said it was hidden, and I would think that-"

"I think I found it." When he cut her off with that sentence, he felt her fingers squeeze his shoulder tight. He felt uncomfortable. He didn't want her holding on to his shoulder anymore. He looked behind them, down the tunnel the utility doors and scorpion corpse had been, and was glad to see her light didn't reach far enough to make it stand out from the darkness. "You can open your eyes, there aren't any rads-," he caught himself, "there aren't any of them here." Her arms dropped from his shoulders and he turned to face the rubble, pointing at the orange light. "I think it's right over there. Do you want me to check for you?"

Instantly, she shook her head no, and stepped ahead to the debris pile. She didn't want to be left in the dark, he figured. It made sense. He followed her, watching her climb over the pile and peer into the tunnel, before smiling broadly and vaulting herself inside. Charon slung his shotgun onto his back and followed suit, yet found a harder time fitting through the entrance, since its bottom half was blocked off by the rubble. He managed to duck low enough to fit through and came up right behind her, the girl eagerly trotting up to a sort of jail cell gate and door affixed to the width of the tunnel.

"This is it!" She exclaimed, and she fumbled with the lock; a simple dial separating them from the guns and other junk inside. Her hand yanked on the metal after she input the combination, but it didn't give. He folded his arms in impatience as she failed to open it three more times, and she turned to him, an embarrassed look on her smoothskin face. "Charon... how do you unlock locks like these? I forgot which way to turn the dial."

"Right, left past zero, and then right again." He said robotically, and she nodded, turning back to the lock. It still didn't open. "Are you sure that's the right combination?" He ventured sourly, and she took a step back from the lock, hands on her hips.

"Of course I'm sure of it. Thirty one, thirty three, nineteen. It's simple." She started twisting the hair near her ear again, and he lightly pushed her aside, craning his head down and trying the lock himself. It opened with a quick, satisfying, mocking click. He looked down at her flustered face; she was biting her bottom lip with annoyance. "Okay, maybe you're good at opening locks. Sue me." She said huffily and she brushed past him, pulling the cell door open. Charon looked on, amused at her anger. He hadn't seen her act like that before. In a sense, it was almost cute, the way she tried to shoulder off her embarrassment by acting angry.

Wait.

Fuck.

He just attributed one of her personality ticks to the concept of cute. Or... did he? No, he didn't. Words like cute did not exist in his vocabulary. No. _Fuck_ no.

"Charon, look, there's assault rifles in here!" She exclaimed, beckoning him to go inside the "room". He ducked under the bars of the cell and was surprised to see that a ways back, rifles and pistols and ammunition boxes were lined up, ready to be taken. And they were good weapons, too. The shotguns of the assortment were shining black combat models; no sawed off pieces of shit to be found. His employer had taken especially to a polished hunting rifle, running her fingers over the wooden stock. The boxes of ammunition were labeled, and he even saw a few grenade boxes behind them. His employer happily burrowed through the loot, dumping a good amount of .32 ammo in her duffel bag, and motioning for Charon to go ahead and pocket shells for his shotgun. She told him to take a few grenades "for kicks", and while he did so, she even managed to find two medicine kits and stuff away the extra bandages and cotton in her bag, along with the ever necessary stimpaks.

As he examined the ammunition boxes, she spoke up with a sound of intrigue, and he turned to see her holding some sort of plastic contraption the length of her thumb to middle finger, "Charon, what's this?" It took a moment for him to register what it was, "It looks like some sort of inhaler. Why would an asthma medicine be here? Or, wait, there's something written on the side..." She turned it around to look at the inscription, and he finally recognized it after hearing her comments on it. Inhaler. There was no such thing as asthma inhalers he was sure, as he didn't even know what the fuck the word meant or ever heard it before, but he knew the only word one could tie to 'inhaler' in the wastes was...

"Jet..?"

Charon reacted without thinking. He lurched forward and snatched the plastic menace out of her hands, and she immediately flared up in response. "What the _hell_, Charon! What was that for?" He glared hard at her and held up the white and red inhaler between his forefinger and thumb.

"This," he shook it in his hand, "is Jet. It's a drug." He watched her eyes roll, and he spoke louder, "An addictive, dangerous drug. Not medicine, if that's what you're thinking."

"I don't see what the big deal is, what could it possibly do? It's an inhaler." She almost seemed to pout. Either she was playing games, or she was a complete idiot.

"Miss, I strongly advise you let this trash stay here and not use it. Nothing good will come of even keeping this drug on hand." His employer kept her eyes on the inhaler, but he could sense defeat in her demeanor. "It's just best to leave it here and never think about it again." She sighed, nodding in agreement, and took it back from him, placing it in the medicine kit and shoving the box away. What he hated more than smoothskins were smoothskins flying higher than a kite. They were nasty when they took drugs. Vicious. No matter the drug, too. Jet, Buffout, Psycho; it all affected them and made them go crazy and act like idiots just waiting to get their asses kicked or their necks slit. He felt partially relieved it wasn't said Psycho she had found. Otherwise, she could have been stuck with it on accident. Even female smoothskins were monsters when they touched that shit. And those drugs weren't clinical; they were faulty in assembly. They broke easily and leaked. They could involuntarily inject their potent slime in a smoothskin and leave them crazed for more.

Yet the thought of drugs were surely tempting to his employer. She even looked curiously back at the medicine kit, if not willfully. But she had listened to him. And that alone made him proud of her, if only for a short while. Pride, like cute, was another word that just didn't sit in his vocabulary.


	14. Momentous Occasions

**AN:** I AM BACK, WITH A VENGEANCE. AFTER STARVING YOU OF CONTENT, HERE I AM TO GUIDE YOU THROUGH THE MURK. This particular chapter is a little bit splotchy, though.

See, readers? This is what happens when you don't review. I DISAPPEAR. Review, goddamn you, **REVIEW**!

* * *

**|Chapter 13 - Momentous Occasions|**

Behind him sat the cold mesh gate to Hamilton's, latched closed and hopefully not to be opened again. In front of him, his employer trotted to the ledge of the small cliff. He heard her suck in as much of the stale yet fresh (compared to the cave) wasteland air, and then heave over and begin to retch over the ledge, the vomit splattering on the rock below. He twisted his torn lips in disgust, and wondered if she had _planned_ to empty her stomach over the ledge, or was just _lucky _enough to move in that general direction beforehand. Charon only watched, unsure of what to do or say, and figured she wouldn't want him to "help" in anyways.

On their way back, she had seen the mangled corpse of the murdered-by-kin scorpion, and the other corpses as well. The splatters of yellow scorpion blood on the wall, coagulated and jelly-like, the ruptured dark green entrails... he understood her inability to keep her gag reflex from reacting. He appreciated that she held it in _at_ _least_ until they got outside, as well.

The wet splashes of the puke were the only sounds he could hear. They were incredibly loud, save for the slight wasteland winds howling by. He watched her shoulders shudder and her hands grasp at the rocky ledge, back arching slightly every time a new wave came up. She shook her head side to side between spurts, and as he watched, he realized with each shake, the bun in her hair flung about more loosely; it was coming undone. His employer bent her head down again and coughed up more vomit, and Charon watched her hair begin to hang over her shoulder, hardly in any restraint. One more shake of her head, and it would be in her face, and in her retching. Charon went up to her sickened form and knelt next to her, gathering up her dark brown hair and wrapping it around his fingers. He held the silky hair to the nape of her neck, and she looked up at him in genuine astonishment before violently emptying the last of her guts on the rocks below.

The girl shuddered and sat back on her heels, trying not to cough as she fumbled in her bag and produced a paper towel, wiping her lips of the vile fluid. He decided it was okay to let go of her hair, and he stood back up, folding his arms and staring down at the frail little smoothskin. She looked so _weak_. Almost helpless. Just like when she had been terrified of those radscorpions. But she smiled up at him, shattering that pathetic image, and said, "Thanks a _lot_, Charon."

"There is no need to thank me, Miss." He responded gruffly, and she laughed slightly before standing up herself and laying her hand on his shoulder. He normally would have recoiled at her touch, but he didn't this time. He didn't feel repulsed. There _it_ was again; that damn feeling of being _okay_ with her, _not_ annoyed or angered or disgusted. He ground his teeth at the obnoxiousness of it.

"No, really, thank you." She said softly, and she pat his shoulder and faced the slope down to the dried riverbed. "Let's get back to Megaton. Now that we have good supplies, we can rest for the night before we go out to go hunting for those beer bottles."

* * *

It was midnight. After chatting with Gob for the past hour, she had excused herself to the bathroom before heading off to bed. But of course, not the one in the saloon. That one only had a curtain for privacy; no, she had ventured out to the bathrooms between Moriarty's and the Craterside. And of course, Charon had followed suit and was outside against the wall, she figured. After she had told him the stalls had no doors, he had been more than obliged to wait outside.

Alma sat on a stool that somehow found itself inside the women's bathroom, and she hoisted her duffel bag up on her lap. It was slightly heavier due to the new influx of ammo and supplies, but it didn't bother her at all as she zipped open the medicine pocket. It still didn't bother her as it pressed into her legs while she fumbled deep in the pocket amidst the stimpaks, bandages and antiseptics. And it still didn't annoy her as her fingers closed around a plastic column the length of her thumb to middle finger, and as she pulled out the object to examine it in the light of the bathroom.

She felt a rush of shameful adrenaline as she held up the inhaler to the light, to see it in all of its curious glory. The red container of the Jet inhaler gleamed the way polished plastic did, and she brought it back down to her face, to examine the drug for any incriminating evidence of tampering or faulty manufacturing. Alma smiled at herself at the audacity of even calling it manufacturing; the inhaler had been made centuries ago, she was sure, because she knew for a fact nobody in the wastes had a clue how to make inhalers. But thinking about how old it was made her realize how disgusting it could be. Inhalers were most likely hard to come by, so she was sure the one in her hands right then and there was contaminated to _hell_.

Alma squinted as she held the mouthpiece of the inhaler to her eyes, and she was relieved to not find any dirt or bite marks. The _smell_ emitting from it was a different story, and she scrunched her nose due to it. It smelled like dung. She pulled it away from her face and examined the container on it; void of cracks, tightly sealed, and not dented or bent in any way. For being a product of the wastes, it looked remarkably well-kept. _But,_ that was only because of the drug addicts who had kept it before, she figured.

Despite all of the negative things about it, she still felt a desire to try it. A very strong desire. The Jet, fitting nicely into her palm, looked tempting. And the drug would leave no physical evidence of her using it. At least to the human eye. Or... the ghoul eye.

She looked up from the drug to the door. Charon was out there waiting for her. Perhaps even keeping other Megaton residents from coming in the bathroom. If it was someone _else_... perhaps she would have tried a tiny bit of the drug. Just to see. Just to feel what it could possibly be like that made Charon yell at her like that. It was _definitely_ potent. It would definitely pack a punch, small dose or not. But Charon... he was a wasteland veteran. He would _know_. Even a minuscule amount would be detectable for him.

Alma looked back down at the Jet. It almost taunted her. She wasn't a _bad_ kid. She didn't have an inkling of doubt about how terrible drugs were. Her father always told her about drugs; the ones from the past, of course, but he still warned her of what the chemicals they were composed of could do. Jet was no different. It was a drug, most likely composed of those chemicals her father lectured her about. Potent and _deadly_. Nothing a good girl should ever take, ever consider or even _wonder_ to take. But still, the real world was so much different than the vault... than what her father idealized for her...

Charon gave her the same stoic, cold look he always did as she walked out of the bathroom. She smiled up at him, and announced they were to go to bed for the night. He stood up straight from leaning against the wall and followed her as they took the short route to Moriarty's, his tall form dwarfing and shielding her own. She felt much safer and comfortable around him ever since Hamilton's. The inhaler was deep in the medicine pocket, buried to the very bottom, still full of its contents. Taking the drug would have violently destroyed that rare feeling of safety that Charon provided, and she didn't want that to ever happen. Ever.

"Charon," her bodyguard acknowledged her presence, "let me thank you again for everything. And I mean _everything_." He nodded in either obligation or gratitude. She guessed obligation, then confirmed obligation. "I'm impressed that you found those smelling salts back there." She commented, and he looked up at her again from polishing his shotgun. "I mean, it's a medical object most people out here wouldn't understand."

"In my defense, Miss," He began, "I read what it said and did what it instructed. I understood it perfectly."

Alma smiled softly. She grasped the fabric of her teddy lightly. "Well I'm sure, I know that." He kept staring at her. Waiting for her to go on. "But I mean, the fact that you used them instead of, I don't know, slapping me awake; It was thoughtful."

"Well slapping you awake would have hurt you. I can't hurt you or let you get hurt. It's in my-"

"_Contract_, yes. But still, you were thinking with your head. You knew what to do, even if you had never seen those things before." Alma turned to face him, folding her legs carefully under herself. He wouldn't look away. She averted her eyes from his filmy grey ones. They were silent. Alma bit her bottom lip and folded her hands, and cast her eyes to the floor, then up to him. He was still staring. She quickly looked back to the floor, twiddling her fingers, before looking back up at him, clenching her hands together tight.

"Charon..." She pat her mattress, "come here. And would you please bring me my bag?" The ghoul sat still for a moment. Possibly processing her request. She admitted that it was odd. Yet, he complied; he set his shotgun down, hoisted up her duffel bag, and brought it to her. She unzipped the main pocket and fumbled through it, listening to the bed-springs creak as his heavier body sat next to her own.

* * *

Charon could feel the heat coming off of her as he sat next to her, and he looked straight ahead, trying to ignore his proximity to her. He could hear the smoothskin rummaging in her bag, pushing aside ammo and whatever else sat inside. He didn't look back to her when he heard her zip the bag closed. He didn't even look when she spoke up, "Charon... do you mind if I, if I look at your face?"

"_Why_ would you want to do that, Miss?" He questioned, wanting to kick himself that he couldn't just tell her to fuck off. He felt her shift around on the mattress and he stiffened, hands holding tight to his knees and head frozen forward.

"Remember when Moira asked about those sketches?" He could practically taste the apprehension in her voice. Charon nodded, unwilling to even speak about it. "Well... I would love to, um, this will sound awkward..." She paused for a moment. She was holding something in her hand. It tapped on something that sounded like cardboard. Dull, yet crisp taps. "I would love to... _sketch_... you?..."

His teeth threatened to shatter in pure repulsion. "_Why_."

"Don't, don't take this the wrong way, Charon." He could sense her stiffening up as well; bracing herself. "But, I mean, your body, your skin; Jesus I sound like a total _freak_..." His employer scolded herself. "You're a perfect model of human anatomy." He kept staring at the metal wall before him, and he could begin to feel his fingers want to curl up in pain from holding on to his knees so tight. "I'm an artist, Charon. And in order to improve my art, I need to practice anatomy. The muscle models in the vault were only so useful; you're a living, _breathing_ model of the anatomy of human musculature. I've been wanting to ask you this since day one, and I couldn't keep myself from asking now." He felt her shift around again, and the tapping of what he guessed was a pencil intensify.

A model? A fucking _model_? _Perfect_ anatomy? He was a _monster_. Flaking skin and grizzled throat. Rough exterior and rough interior. Laced with radiation, living _dead_. She was mocking him. Right _in front_ of him. _Ridiculing_ his appearance. His fingers weren't in pain; they were in _blood lust_.

"I _just_ want to draw your face. The curvature of your muscles on your skeleton." She tried to sound rational, she was trying to compromise with him. He knew she could feel his anger. That he was more than offended. Enraged. "I feel, if I do this," she began, and he felt her hand land on his thigh, "that we'll become something like friends, or at least learn to understand one another. Maybe, maybe this can result in both of us learning something new about each other." Her fingers softly squeezed his thigh, and with that, some of his anger disappeared. Not because her words, but her gesture. It was like when she touched his shoulder at Hamilton's. When she had hidden behind him in the cave. When she had given him that stimpak after waking up from unconsciousness. His eyes diverted to the hole in his armor; the skin was fully decayed as he had predicted. But it was healed.

"I can't say no to your will, Miss." He said, and her hand lifted from his thigh. A light chuckle came from her. More of his anger dissipated. He grew annoyed again.

"Well, then face me." She commanded, and he turned his face to her. She shook her head, a relieved grin on her face. "_No_, fully. So you're comfortable while I stare at your face for the next hour or so." He grunted his obligation and turned fully around, crossing his legs and resting his wrists on his knees. The smoothskin smiled wider. For some reason, he couldn't take his eyes off of it. She looked down to her sketchbook, pencil in hand, and then began drafting a large oval shape in the center. The oval was sectioned into eighths, and she looked back up at him, brows furrowed in concentration.

"That's not a face." He commented, and she smiled again, glancing back down at the paper.

"No, I suppose it isn't." The smoothskin added two lines stemming from the bottom of the oval, "But, this is just the foundation of the human face." Her finger pointed to the horizontal line closest to the top of the oval. "Brow," then to the middle of the oval, "eyes," then to the lower half, "mouth." He couldn't envision it. Yet he didn't really care.

Or so he thought.

Five minutes into the sketch, and she had the shape of a head, neck, and shoulders outlined, and he found himself wanting to see what else she could do. But the smoothskin stayed silent, staring up at his face. Eyes searching. His own eyes caught her right hand lifting up, and he kept himself from flying back as her soft fingers landed on his cheek. He felt his face grow hot. And she recognized what she was doing and pulled back her hand, blushing and apologizing. "When I draw from a model..." She mumbled, now keeping her face trained on the paper, "I have a tendency to touch it, to figure out its form, and texture. Commit it to memory." The spot where she had touched him felt unusually cold. "Sorry about that, Charon, it won't happen again."

He watched her hunch over her paper, her pencil flying across it with embarrassment-fueled vigor. Once again, once _a-goddamn-gain_, he wasn't upset. He felt a twinge of curiosity. But most of all, a pang of content.

_Fucking _content.

"It's alright, Miss. I'm not upset." His nails threatened to draw blood from his palms. But they stopped digging in his flesh as she looked up, a sheepish smile on her lips. It was like a simple glance from her could tell him to stop becoming enraged. Or to just hold it back from killing her.

The smoothskin looked at him for a moment, and he looked at that poisonous smile of hers; "... I'm glad to hear that."


	15. Foolproof

**AN: **Ooh, I loved writing this chapter. I'm sorry, in advance, if something about Alma upsets you in this next chapter. But I can't help her from being the little "kid" from the Vault.

* * *

**|Chapter 14 - Foolproof|**

"Fucking what do _you_ want, you pretentious asshole?"

Alma woke up with a start. She pressed a hand to her forehead and slowly sat up, feeling her sketchbook slide off of her thighs and softly fall to the mattress. Had she fallen asleep drawing?

"How am_ I_ supposed to know if there's a person willing to do your dirty work? This is my town, you better get the_ fuck_ out of it and leave my people alone. Gob, don't give this ass any drinks, as far as I'm concerned, he's _exiled_ from the saloon as soon as he leaves; I don't want to dirty _our_ hands with his _filth_."

There had been argument in the saloon. Someone was there that Moriarty didn't like. A smile came across her face, and she slung her legs to the floor, glancing down at Charon's mattress. He was still asleep, or just ignoring her. She couldn't tell; the ghoul slept sitting up, his shotgun in his lap and leaning against his shoulder. It had to have been the result of the mental conditioning he went through when he was younger, she figured; he looked ready to spring up and blast a hole through anything that woke him. She inched to the door and squeezed through, keeping the light coming from the saloon from hitting his face. Of course, waking him wouldn't be nice, and he would be pissy the whole day if she did.

As she stepped down the cold metal stairs to the bar, her eyes caught on Gob sulking in the back by the alcohol, arms folded and eyes staring off into space. She turned her head to survey the rest of the saloon, and only saw the haggard and bothered figure of a man in a pressed white pinstripe suit wearing tortoiseshell glasses and a black fedora sitting in the alcove, his head downcast and staring at a thin manila folder full of yellowed papers. Next to him sat a bulky-looking briefcase, stained with something akin to dirt. Or blood.

"Gob... Gob wake up." She said silently as she approached the bar, and he snapped out of his trance and looked to her. When he recognized her, he sighed happily and came to her, leaning on the counter as she sat down, head in her hands. "So, what just happened? Moriarty's yelling woke me up, and I don't think I've ever seen..." Her eyes jerked from his face to the man. Gob turned his head slightly to catch a good sight of the man before turning back to face her.

"He's a patron, or, he _used_ to be. Only comes in once every million years, but when he does, he always gets the boss in a fury." Gob leaned closer and she took the cue and leaned closer as well, eyes trained on him as he spoke softer. "He's from Tenpenny Tower; the right hand man of Allistair Tenpenny, and also the one who does the guy's dirty work. Some people say he's a contract killer, and Moriarty thinks the man is trying to run the whole of Megaton out of the wastes, but nobody knows for sure _what_ he dabbles in."

"Who is Allistair Tenpenny?" Gob almost balked before the look of realization came on his face. The man must have been important or well known, or else he wouldn't have acted the way he had.

"Allistair Tenpenny is some old _hack_ living in Tenpenny Tower, southwest from Megaton. He apparently came from Europe and repaired this huge pre-war luxury hotel and _claims_ it's a safe house from the wastes." When a look of interest came across her face, Gob immediately silenced it, "he only lets people with loads of caps move in, and he doesn't let ghouls even visit the place, even if they're on the verge of death. It's a bigoted settlement that doesn't, in my opinion, deserve to exist." Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the man in the suit shift and look up at them both, before fixing his eyes on her. "I hear all about it from Three Dog, and had the unfortunate experience of coming across the place a while ba-"

"Miss? In the white teddy? Would you kindly come here? I would _love _to speak with you." Alma sat up and looked at the man. He smiled, his teeth white even in the gloom of the alcove, and she looked to Gob. He gave her a grave nod of the head before turning to the alcohol racks, pulling a bottle of wine out and proceeding to busy himself with washing it. Alma grimaced as she stood, flattening out her teddy in hopes of making it longer as she walked over to him. He sat up straighter and kept smiling, gesturing to a chair across from him with a flourish. "Please sit down, my dear."

She complied, fixing her grimace to a look of intrigue, happy to know if indeed the man was trouble, Charon, Gob, and even Moriarty would be there to stop it. "Um, good morning, sir."

"Good morning! Ah, it's so nice to hear some manners in this _crater_." The man sighed and leaned back in his chair, removing the fedora and looking at her over the edge of his glasses. He was bald, or at least shaven. "My name is Mister Burke. May I ask you what yours is?"

"Alma Adler."

"Oh, that name sounds so nice. Alma Adler. Rolls right off the _tongue_, doesn't it?" His eyes seemed to scan her body, taking in every uncomfortable detail, and she shifted her legs tighter together, her hands in her lap protectively. "But I digress. May I ask you where you came from? Rivet City? Here, in Megaton? Perhaps even cross country? I must say, you look much more different than the... _people_ out here. Dare I say foreign?"

Despite herself, Alma blushed at his slight compliment. "No, I'm pure American, if that's what you can call it, and I actually came from a Vault."

At this, Burke smiled almost too broadly. He sat up straighter and folded his hands together, leaning on the table with his elbows and resting his chin on his locked hands. He smiled up at her for an uncomfortable minute till he began speaking quietly, enough to make her lean in as well. "Well I have a _special_ offer for you, young lady." She nodded in recognition and his eyes quickly flashed to look in the direction of the bar, almost too fast for her to notice it. "You see, my darling, my boss Allistair Tenpenny is _always_ looking for those such as yourself to join his haven in Tenpenny Tower."

"Why me, Mister Burke? What could be so special about me?"

He chuckled, shaking his head. "Ah, you don't seem to realize, but since you were in a Vault, you have a pristine heritage. You aren't some lone, muddled up _drifter_ of these godforsaken wastes. In Tenpenny, we're gathering up the _cleanest_ of blood and intellect to save those that deserve to continue the American nation." She started to frown at his harsh words, and he caught it immediately. "I ask you, my dear, what is your _literary_ knowledge? Your favorite novel? Play?"

"Oh, well, I have many," he smiled that strange, broad, white smile again. It made her feel more uncomfortable; afraid, even. Her eyes darted to the bar, and she was relieved to see Gob staring back, giving her a quick, reassuring wink. "But one of my favorite pieces of literature is Dante's Divine Comedy."

Burke laughed loudly, making her lean back in surprise and even having Gob jump slightly. His laugh sounded hollow. "Oh, _Miss Adler!_ How delightful you know such a profound masterpiece! Did you know that we have copies of that book in our library back at Tenpenny Tower? We have a plethora of literature I'm sure you must be _dying_ to read, yes?" Alma felt a small smile at the corner of her lips. If there was one thing she missed from the Vault, it was having the time and comfort to sit down and read a book. Nowadays she resorted to skimming over magazines and news articles while taking a quick break from some recent journey; Tenpenny's library sounded heavenly. "Oh, I see it, that smile right there." He grinned and sat up, bringing his hands to his lap. "You must be fond of the pre-war era. I can tell. Do you know we've restored the hotel to its full pre-war glory? Everything is in beautiful shape, and we even have a collection of pre-war memorabilia and preserved, pristine clothing back when there was grass under out feet and not irradiated _cesspools_."

Alma was more than excited. Tenpenny Tower sounded amazing. It couldn't have been as bad as Gob was saying, and she decided Moriarty hated Burke only because he was so well-off. She almost wanted to accompany the man immediately to the place, but something nagged at her mind and dampened that excitement; she was only a teenager, poor, and had Charon with her. And she wouldn't send Charon back to Underworld or even order him to do anything else but stay with her unless he wanted otherwise. She needed the ghoul with her, she wouldn't give up his company for anything, yet she wasn't sure how the both of them could afford to stay at Tenpenny Tower. "Mister Burke, I have to say, this place sounds better and better. But how could I _possibly_ get in to Tenpenny Tower? I heard it's very expensive... and I have a friend traveling with me... How could we manage?"

He simply smiled and leaned in again, "My sweet, you and your friend are more than welcome to enter and live in Tenpenny Tower absolutely _free_." She gasped quietly in shock; his hand had reached under the table and slid across her outer thigh. "All you need to do in return is help me with a _predicament_ here in Megaton..." Alma grimaced and shifted her leg away. He only chuckled. "You see, that atom bomb in the crater... it's a threat to us all, even Tenpenny Tower. That menace could go off at any _minute_. It could blow us all to smithereens and lace the air with an extra helping of radiation." She nodded, though still a tad uncomfortable, intrigued in his words. "What I need you to do, my dear, is take _this_," he suddenly reached in his briefcase he had been ignoring since she had come down the stairs, and pulled out a big black metal box, colored wires streaming out of one side and clasps and a small button system on it, "and place it in the maintenance box of the bomb. This will deactivate the bomb, and none of us will ever have to... _worry_ about it again."

"Mister _Burke!_ We should do this right now, then!" She exclaimed, standing up, but he motioned for her to sit down immediately and hushed her. Why would something like that be quiet? It could save Megaton, why hadn't he told everyone or done it himself?

"No, no, there's a complication, my dear." He commented quickly, looking over his shoulder at Gob. The ghoul was on the verge of jumping over the bar, not having heard anything except her exclamation; he was probably worried about it. "We are quite positive that this charge is effective, but if it's not, it could activate the bomb and send us _all _sky-high. If you put this on the bomb and come with me to Tenpenny, we can set it off at a safe, remote distance and hope for the _best_. I'll have my men come here and clean out the city for safety precautions. It's _foolproof_." Burke gave her that upsetting grin, but she couldn't ignore how brilliant the plan was. "So, Miss Adler, are you in?" He held out his hand.

Alma looked to Gob. Perhaps, if the bomb exploded, Gob would be able to escape the confusion and head back to Underworld. So many people would be lost without their homes if it exploded, but she had a strong feeling it wouldn't. This would save everyone. She had to do it. "Yes, Mister Burke. I am." Her hand clasped his own and they shook firmly. The seedy grin on his face grew so wide, it almost touched his ears


	16. For the Better

**AN:** I've heavily edited this chapter, finally, because it most definitely needed it and this version would link the story more logically together. That is all.

* * *

**|Chapter 15 - For the Better|**

Charon opened the door to the rest of the saloon, finding himself concerned of where the smoothskin was. She hadn't been in bed when he woke up, and for all he knew, she could have been out in Megaton doing god knows what, or even in the wastes themselves. Conversely, he hoped this worry was only attributed to his contract. No, he didn't hope, he _knew _it was only because of the contract.

Yet, as soon as his eyes adjusted to the light in the saloon, he was met with his employer almost at the top of the stairs, carrying something in her hand with an urgent expression on her face. It looked like a massive detonator. She didn't even smile at the sight of him, she simply came up to him and grabbed his wrist, tugging him back into the dark room.

"You look upset, where have you been?" She immediately pressed a finger to her lips, signaling him to speak quietly. "Why do you have that det-"

"Charon, there's a man downstairs named Mister Burke. Do you know him? Heard of him?" She asked, fumbling around with the detonator.

"Yes, I know him. He works for Allistair Tenpenny and hates wastelanders just as much as he hates ghouls. Finest example of a bigot in all of the wastes." The smoothskin nodded in either agreement, or in recognition. "He had often organized hits on Ahzrukhal, but nobody would pull through due to the fact there were super mutants all over the Mall." Her face looked worried, her breathing hastened. Something was wrong. "What did he do to you?"

She held out the detonator to him. "Burke says this would deactivate the bomb in Megaton. All I had to do was put it on the maintenance box and go to Tenpenny with him to set it off." Her look turned from worry to confusion. "He says we would both be allowed in there free, that he would send his men here to get the people to a safe spot before the device was set off." She looked up at him, and he was surprised to see her eyes wet and teared up. "He says we'll save this city, we'll save everyone here and we won't ever have to worry about them or the bomb again. That we'll win a free ticket to a luxury hotel and live our days in comfort."

She almost looked fanatical, and he held his breath in anticipation; she wasn't that _stupid_, was she? That he would let _them_ stay in that bigoted hellhole and _not_ kill everyone in the city? The smoothskin wiped the wetness from her eyes and her lips turned into a frustrated and suspicious frown, "Charon... this doesn't deactivate the bomb, does it?"

He would have sighed in relief, if he knew how to sigh anymore. "No, that's a detonator in your hands. You rig that in the bomb and Burke will kill every living thing in Megaton, and then some." His employer almost dropped the charge to the floor, but she regained her composure and clung on to it tightly. She bit her lip and crossed her arms, staring down at the detonator. Thinking.

"You said he organized hits, right?"

"Yes, and he wouldn't hesitate to have one taken out on you." Charon was beginning to wonder if she was trying to plan out some sort of maneuver that could get a horde of mercenaries after their heads. She had better fucking not be.

"Or would he..." His employer sat on the bed and played with the detonator in her hands. He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall across from her, staring down at her expectantly. "Charon, that man, he's infatuated with me."

"How can you tell? He's been trying to manipulate you. You've only known him for let's say around thirty to forty minutes, and you think he's genuinely _attracted_ to you?" He scoffed, and she smiled only slightly. But this smile was a smirk, a mischievous grin.

Her hand landed along her left outer thigh, and she looked down at her legs. "Oh no, he likes me. He may have been manipulating, but he was as easy to read as that wastelander we freed at Friendship Heights." She looked back up to him, a sort of cunning glint in her eyes, and smiled wider at his unguarded look of surprise. "What, do you think I hadn't listened to you when that happened?"

He remembered that event clearly. The smoothskin had been more than happy to escort the asshole to Megaton, and hadn't seemed to have a clue about his real intentions, even yelling at Charon for scaring the man off to the wastes. "Honestly, Miss, I wasn't sure you had."

She stood up, grinning, and held out the detonator to him. "Well, I did. Put this in my duffel bag, if you would be so kind." He took it and went to her bag, his back turned to her as she continued to talk. "Charon, I need to go speak with him one more time. I _would_ really like for you to come with..." He perked up at the tone of reluctance in her voice. What was she planning that he couldn't be a part of? "But if I want this to go through right, I can't have you accompany me. Burke knows I have a friend up here, but he doesn't know it's _you_, a ghoul. And an extremely good marksman, if I may add." He could feel the smile on her face just by the way she talked of him; it made him get that annoying pang of content again, but it was still replaced with that concern about why he couldn't go with. It wasn't jealousy, it was simply his contract. Jealousy was _not_ in his vocabulary, either. "I do want you to keep an eye on the both of us, though, while I speak with him. When I go downstairs, wait some while for a signal for you to come down. I'll have Gob clink some shot glasses together in the sink, so listen carefully."

Charon turned to face her, and was surprised to see her holding a small round mirror to her face. He saw his reflection catch in it for a split second as she preened herself in the mirror. "If I mention leaving the bar, go out before we do and look inconspicuous; lean on the balcony railing, and keep an eye out for us. Wherever we go, keep watch, and _only_ follow if you don't have a good enough vantage point." The smoothskin turned to him and ordered him to turn around. He complied, and soon listened to the familiar shifting sounds of fabric voiding itself of a body, then encasing one. With her approval, he turned back around to see her in her vault suit. Yet, the armor it was typically bedecked with was missing, and she was busy using the hem of her shed teddy to wipe her face in the mirror.

Her intense focus on her reflection and her free hand picking compulsively at her eyes was too confusing to avoid commenting on. "Why did you take your armor off? What are you doing...?"

"I'm going to get Burke out of here. Or, at least try to..." She turned back to her little mirror and continued to preen and fluff her hair and pull at her eyelashes. Why she was acting certifiably insane, he didn't know or care. All he was concerned about was the fact that she was actually, dare he say it, _prettying_ herself. He watched her eyes catch on his reflection, and she turned to look at him, smiling with amusement. "What? With what I'm planning to do, I have to look presentable... Burke does seem to be a very high-class man, don't you think?"

He balked. _What_ was she planning to do that required her to peck at her face and hair like that? And why was she suddenly complimenting the man? "Whatever you're planning, Miss, you should reconsider having me with you. You don't know what he could do to you. He could pull a _gun_ on you."

She just smiled and turned back around, holding the mirror at arm's length and examining her face, her other hand finally taking a rest. "He won't do such a thing. Plus, you'll be looking out for me." His employer stood up and squinted her eyes at the mirror, holding it above her head, "I really wish there was a floor length mirror somewhere in here..." He shifted uncomfortably, still pretty goddamned angry that she wouldn't tell him what the hell was going on. With a sigh, she shook her head and snapped the little mirror shut, turning to put it back in her bag. When she looked over her shoulder at him and caught the disgruntled look on his face, she sighed again. "This plan it totally foolproof, Charon, believe me."

"I don't agree. This isn't a smart ide-"

"I _swear_, Charon, I will be perfectly safe. I can handle myself." She began to busy herself with tossing the teddy in the bag haphazardly and once again concerning herself with her suit and rubbing at invisible stains and plucking off strands of hair and fluff. Apparently she could still sense his frustration, because she grumbled quietly to herself and gave him an annoyed look. "If he does manage to do _something_ to me," she reached in her bag and he watched her pull out a shiny black 10mm and wave it in the air, "then you'll hear the shot and rush in and save me." He grimaced as she zipped open the suit and motioned for him to look away. Was she _really_ hiding the pistol in her suit?. "And don't you dare say anything about my gun concealment choices. We didn't have pockets big enough for a gun in the Vault..." With that, she stood up, pulled on her boots in a small rush and opened the door, looking back at him over her shoulder. "Come out to the loft, but stay out of sight of downstairs."

The both of them moved out and he hung in a corner of the loft, folding his arms and glaring daggers at her back. "Okay, let me do one last thing, and then listen for the signal," she instructed, and he nodded. Charon watched her turn and knock on Nova's door softly, and watched as it opened slightly. She whispered some words with a smile on her face, the door opened wider, and she disappeared inside. It was a few good moments with hushed chatter rising from the closed door before moments later, she emerged. Her boots were as polished as they could be, making him wonder how the two women could have done such a thing so quick. But even more concerning was how her suit was close to flying open, as the zipper was zipped low enough to show cleavage he thought only prostitutes could have. It almost looked like her... "assets" had been pushed up to make them look even more tantalizing to the average man. Nova followed her out and took her by the shoulders and spoke something so quiet even_ he_ couldn't hear what she was saying. His employer nodded with a determined look on her face, and Nova smiled and said something else before going back into her room. His employer gave him a slight smile before going down the stairs with confidence that bordered on insanity. He began to fume, angry at himself that he didn't realize it before. She was going to try and _seduce_ Burke. She was going to get killed, or get a hit on her, or get molested. And he couldn't intervene unless she said so. He almost wanted to pace around the loft with frustration, and began to weigh the options of obeying or possibly flying in to save her from getting a bullet in her forehead.

That is, until he heard those fateful clinks of shot glasses in the sink.

* * *

Alma alighted on the landing of the saloon floor with an intentional flourish, her boot heels intentionally stomping hard on the floor and resonating enough to make both Gob and Burke look up in surprise. She smiled at Burke, who sat up straighter and grinned back, winking, before turning to Gob and beckoning him to her. He obliged more than willingly, a questioning look in his eyes. "Gob, would you kindly get me two glasses of purified water?" He nodded, slightly confused, she supposed, and she leaned in close, smiling back at the curious Burke before lowering her voice. "As soon as I sit down with Burke, go to the sink and pretend to wash shot glasses and hit them together as loudly as you can without, of course, shattering them, okay?"

"What are you planning, Alma?" He asked, and she only shushed him before suggesting he get the water. He quickly turned to the fridge and opened it, pulling out two shining bottles of water and grabbing up freshly cleaned glasses from the drying rack near the sink. The waters emptied into the glasses and he handed them off to her. She smiled and took them in hand, turning to Burke and shining that smile to him.

"I've got us some water, Mister Burke." She said as she approached him, and his grin spread wider. "I would just like to discuss something with you first, before we get on to the matters of the plan." Alma sat down in the chair she had been in only a little bit before, and set the glasses down. The gun was cold against her stomach and made her jump a bit, but she disguised it as shifting to comfort. Burke immediately took up his and drank a few sips, giving her the chance to look at Gob. He quickly ducked away from the bar and not even a moment later the sound of running water rose up, followed with the clattering of shot glasses. She looked back to Burke just as he finished drinking, and smiled; the thuds of Charon's boots resounded on the stairs, and both of them turned their heads to watch as he made his grand entrance. She had a feeling Charon had been asked to act before, as he played his role of apathy remarkably well. He glared at both of them, a glare that seemed very much real, and he alighted on the bar stool that Alma herself liked to sit in. Gob came up to him and they began talking quietly, and she turned her eyes to look back at Burke.

"I see that asshole Charon is here to assault Moriarty again." He commented snidely, and she watched Charon's shoulders twitch; he could hear every word.

"Oh, who is he?" She asked innocently, and Burke looked at her, his smirk back on his face.

"My apologies, my dear," he began, "I quite forgot that you've hardly been out in the wastes. That man over there is a ghoul that works for Moriarty's rival, Ahzrukhal. All three of them are _scum_." Burke chuckled and drank his water again, before leaning down on the table. "But yes, Miss Adler, what is it that you want to speak to me about? Travel complications to Tenpenny? How dining plans should be organized for you?"

Alma leaned forward herself, drooping her eyelids and smiling softly and ignoring the gun's cold metal beginning to touch her ribcage. "No, not quite. I would just like to talk to you about _us_." A seedy grin grew on his face, and she caught his eyes shoot to her breasts quickly before returning her gaze.

"My dear, whatever are you talking about?"

"_Us_, Mister Burke. The two of us." She crossed her arms and held them right under her bust and leaned back on the table, enhancing the already attention-grabbing cleavage, and she watched him notice the action and glance back down. "As much as I _want_ to get this plan executed as soon as possible and go with you to Tenpenny, I feel like I need some time before we go through with it. My friend said they didn't want to go to Tenpenny, so this whole job would be left to my lonesome." He cocked an eyebrow, and she internally scolded herself for sounding suspicious so quickly. "It's only that it'll be such a huge transition for me, don't you see? Going from a vault to Megaton to such a_ luxurious_ place as Tenpenny. And you _do_ care about me, don't you?" His brow lowered slightly. Her eyes slid noticeably over to Charon's direction, and she took note that his shoulders were stiffer than normal and even Gob was shying away from him. Burke looked in the same direction, and frowned with a sneer. "But I feel like we should, perhaps, go for a walk? This place is so stuffy, I'd love to take a stroll with you and discuss our plans, Mister Burke."

That was Charon's cue. And true to form, he stood up, slammed down a few caps next to his empty glass and left the saloon, slamming the door shut and making the light fixtures shake. Burke kept his eyes trained on the door for a moment before looking to her. "Yes... I believe we should. I dislike this place, anyways. Too gloomy, too _dirty_." He stood up and smiled down at her, holding out his arm, picking up his briefcase with his opposite hand. Alma stood and looped her arm through his own, hiding her grimace at contact with him, and he led her out the door, to the sight of a slowly waking up Megaton, the sun a little higher on the horizon and casting its amber glow into the crater.

Charon was slumped over the railing, staring out at the city. He was noticeably on edge when he heard them exit the saloon, and she only gave him a passing glance as Burke led her to the right-hand side of the balcony. "Mister Burke," she looked at Charon one more time, and saw he had his head turned slightly in their direction, "you have such charm to you, and such _promising_ plans for the likes of me. It's all so overwhelming, don't you see? A little girl from a vault till only a small, small while ago?"

"Ah yes, I'm sure you've never had such an offer like mine before." He forced them to walk slowly, but out of Charon's hearing range. She hoped he'd start to follow them. Despite the gun she had, she wanted someone to be ready to jump in. But then that would ruin her plans...

"Also, I'm very concerned about the deactivator. The thought it could destroy this whole city... I don't know if I can go through with it." He looked at her, and she felt her lungs writhe and choke her in the adrenaline of the potential of him figuring out her real plans. "Ever since I moved out of my vault... I've been living here. This place has been my home. And as much as I want to come with you right away, I can't possibly just pack up and go yet and risk the thought of this place being wiped off the face of the planet. Of losing another home."

"You... you _live_ here?" He sounded genuinely surprised, perhaps even a bit worried. Was the vice ready to close on him? "I would have thought - not _here_? You don't have a home here, do you?"

"No, I don't, Mister Burke. But this is my only home, I keep a small amount of possessions here from my vault..." She looked away, to emphasize her despair. She could feel Burke's eyes on her. "These people, though they may be... _interesting_... these people are the closest to family, I can't just disappear."

He gripped her arm tighter, making her look up at him. He actually looked upset. "My dear, Miss Adler... I'll, I'll have someone else do it. And when you're ready to."

"You're not just _saying_ that, are you, Mister Burke?" Her eyes bored into his, and he stared back with a sort of conviction she wasn't used to seeing. It was different than the wastelander's at Friendship Heights. Deeper, concerned, maybe even desperate.

"No, of course not," their walk had brought them to the side of the crater at the right of the bomb. The both stopped to look at it and its deadly potential. "I can't stop that I must go back to Tenpenny today, but I can have one of my men set it up, you won't have to go near it. I'll write to you, and you can write back when you're ready and I'll send my men to come fetch you." She gave him a hopeful but suspicious look, and he caught it just as well as she had hoped. "No, my dear, I'm serious. You're so much different than any other woman I've met. I mean, _look_ at you, _listen_ to you. I have so much to ask of you, to learn of you. I would never want to distress you."

"I don't believe you, Mister Burke. You just came out of nowhere and now you're praising me like a goddess? How do I know this isn't just for _your_ benefit?"

"Alma, my... _sweet_ songbird," he began, and he put his hands on her shoulders, "I will admit, we have only just met. But you are so rare a find in the wastes. From a stable Vault, so compassionate for those around you. I promise you, this will help you just as much as it will help me. Give me time, I'll find out a way I can have you come to Tenpenny." Burke sighed, looking at the ground. "I know, my dear, this might seem so strange for you, but after talking with you and knowing you're more than willing to come with me... I can't hurt you. I won't. If you're uncomfortable to do this, then you won't have to. The bomb is no laughing matter."

"Will you really do all of this for _me_? I'm just a simple vault dweller..." Alma found his arms around her in a split second, and she looked up to the balcony where Charon was, hoping to get the same shocked look out of him that was on her own face. He only watched, shifting slightly on the railing. Burke's hands wandered along her back before wrapping around her waist. She kept her stomach sucked in as much as possible, so he wouldn't feel the impression of the gun. "Mister Burke..."

"I promise, you are such an interesting, intriguing girl, my dear." She felt her stomach twist as his chapped lips pecked her cheek. "Your company is a thousand and one times better than any of the people in Tenpenny, man and woman alike. I won't risk your mental stability by making you do this."

Up on the balcony, Charon had turned away, and she bit her lip, bringing her hands to Burke's arms. "So, you really will do this for me?"

"Yes," his lips touched to her other cheek, "do not fret, my songbird. I'm leaving later today, and right below us is my rental home. Just bring me the deactivator as soon as you can, and I'll be off to change mine and my boss' plans for the better." His last kiss landed on her forehead, and she metally told herself an extra long, almost boiling bath would be the only way to cleanse herself, "For you."


	17. It'll Come With A Robot

**AN: **I hope this next chapter is a good follow-up to the previous one. I was working to get things done, so pardon it if it's a bit off or something. REVIEW.

* * *

**|Chapter 16 - It'll Come With A Robot|**

It was eleven in the morning. Two hours after she woke up and stumbled into a life-threatening dilemma. She smiled shyly at Burke, both of them standing before his rental home not even ten yards away from the bomb and its perpetual pool of irradiated water. The bomb she had almost been fooled into detonating. That would have obliterated the whole of Megaton from existence.

"My dear, I really wouldn't want you to wait out here, but I forgot to tidy up this shack of mine. It's expected of a bachelor, though." Burke looked down to the detonator in his hands as he turned to his door. "Just wait for a moment, my songbird. _Just_ a moment." And with that, he shut the door and left her standing quite awkwardly outside his house.

At this point, all of Megaton was awake. Every resident that passed by gave her a suspicious or wary look. Even the children that normally went out of their way to say good morning to her shied away. Burke was bad news, and since she was associating herself with him and hanging outside his doorway, she was now bad news too. She had this sense of infamy radiating off of herself. It made her uncomfortable.

Luckily enough, it wouldn't last long, as long as her plan went through. She was also lucky that Charon once again had a perfect vantage point in case anything should go wrong. She looked up to the balcony above Burke's house, and was pleased to see Charon staring back down, leaning on the railing. But as soon as he realized she was looking at him, he turned away so fast that if he had gone any faster, he might have broken his neck. Alma frowned. Ever since Burke had embraced her and laced her cheeks with those disgusting kisses, Charon hadn't said a single coherent word in conversation. He listened to her instructions as unwillingly obedient as ever, but all he would do was mutter incoherently or grunt. She wondered if his extreme disapproval of her plan had anything to do with it. If he had been a normal person instead of an emotionally void husk, she would have even guessed he was jealous.

But, now wasn't the time to ponder her bodyguard's inability to socialize. The door to the shack creaked open, Burke coming out with a gracious smile, and she almost forgot to return it. "Okay, my dear, this place is at least a small bit presentable to you now. I must remind you, this shack is nothing compared to my suite at Tenpenny, which I hope you'll see soon. _Please_, come in." He bowed slightly and held out his hand to invite her inside.

"Oh I'm sure your suite is astonishing, Mister Burke." She regretfully placed her hand in his own and he pulled her delicately inside, the door creaking shut. She hoped Charon was at the Brass Lantern and had his shotgun loaded and his steel toed boots ready to kick down the door if anything were to happen. Perhaps trying to distract her, her eyes caught on his briefcase sitting on the table. She remembered the manila folder inside. Something told her that if she wanted her plan to come to fruition, she'd have to find a way to get the files tucked away in there. It would be her only proof of his plans. But how could she ever distract him long enough to steal away the evidence?

"Ah, the hours that I was away from you, I spent them worrying about you." Burke commented, and he gestured for her to sit down. Right next to the briefcase. She obliged and he sat across from her. "I really hope our plans won't hurt you, my dear."

"I'm sure they won't, I just need some time to be ready for them."

"Oh I hope so." He pushed the briefcase aside to occupy his time, until she realized he was staring at her face. She was so absorbed in her worry that it was showing on her face. "Miss Adler, is there something wrong?"

"Actually, there is." She spoke up before she knew what she was thinking. But as the words formed on her tongue, she realized exactly what she was unconsciously planning to do. It had to work. "You remember that ghoul, his name... was Charon, right?" The very mention of a ghoul had set a look of disgust on his face. Her eyes darted to the briefcase. It was unlocked. "I'm worried about him. I saw him lolling around the balcony above your house, I think he may be stalking you or me."

"Stalking? _Us_? That's unacceptable..." He muttered, his voice turning from sugar to fire. "Are you sure?"

Alma nodded. She knew what to say, she hoped her idea worked. "He followed me back into the saloon, and followed me outside. You saw him sitting close to us and you saw him go outside right before we did, and I even saw him on the balcony above your house moments ago. What do you think that could mean?"

A look of realization and angered concern came over him and he looked to the floor. "Damn it... Ahzrukhal's not..." Burke stood up quickly and rushed to the back end of the shack, and she watched him pace around, before he came back to her. "That man, Ahzrukhal... so he finally decided to -"

"Um, Mister Burke, what are you so upset about?"

He looked at her, and the fire in his eyes cooled off. He let out a deep breath and smiled, regaining control, "Ah, my dear, it's just that the ghoul's employer and I are not on the _best_ of terms. I haven't heard from my correspondents about him for quite some time..." He sat down, smiling, and she almost flared up in annoyance that he didn't rush out to find Charon, or at least look to see if he was there. "It's nothing to worry about, I promise you."

"But, but, what will you _do_? He's still hanging around outside somewhere, I'm worried that..."

"Are you really that worried, my songbird?" He asked, his face turning concerned and serious. She nodded sheepishly. "Ah, I see... Look, I don't want to put you anywhere near that ghoul, so stay right here."

She shifted in fake shock, her eyes wide, "What are you planning to do?"

He smiled softly at her as he stood back up and moved to the door. "I'll be fine, my dear. Thank you for your concern, but I'll be fine. I'll make sure if that ghoul is still buzzing around here, that he'll leave the both of us _plenty_ alone." He didn't even wait for her response. The door closed with the softest click it could manage. Alma smiled broadly and leaped for the briefcase, flipping the top open. As much as she hated using Charon as a distraction and as much as she knew he'd hate it too, it was perfect enough. She rifled through the papers in the folder quickly, hardly noticing the rest of the contents in the briefcase as her eyes settled on a tabbed section heavily marked up with pen.

She looked over her shoulder, the door still very much closed, and looked back to the papers, scanning over them. A typed briefing of orders from Allistair Tenpenny sat in the front of the small paper clipped stack, but many words were crossed out and substituted with ponderings from Burke. At the bottom was Tenpenny's signature and Burke's as well. She would have to read the pages later, her time was short and all that mattered then was that she had it. She folded up the paper and tucked it in the left cup of her bra. As she reached to shut the briefcase, her eyes caught on dimly gleaming somethings underneath the folder. Alma lifted up the heavily used folder and was amazed to see a plethora of gold and silver caps underneath, amounting to around three thousand dollars total. How could the man carry such money with raiders and monsters all about?

Her guilty conscience, though it was powerful, let her next actions slide. She grabbed a handful of silver caps, around ten of them, and she stuffed them in her bra between the fabric and the paper. She also snatched up eight golden ones and did the same on the other side of the bra, the pointed parts facing away from her flesh, then slammed the briefcase shut. To keep them secure, she quickly disrobed the top of her suit, stuffing the gun down a pant leg, and reaching behind and fumbling with the clasp. Hopefully she'd get this awkward situation squared away before-

"My songbird! You won't have to worry about that ghoul anymo-" She gasped as the door swung open, her fingers having the clasps in the middle of being linked together. Alma stood up and turned, eyes wide, at the sight of Burke's similar shock. Of course, it only took him a second before his look of shock dissipated and was replaced with a sultry gaze. "My dear... whatever could you _possibly_ be doing right now?" Her bra unintentionally made it look like it was close to bursting , and she blushed wildly, found the tighter clasps, and immediately pulled the sleeves of her suit back on.

"Oh, um, nothing, Mister Burke, nothing at all." She said meekly, pulling the zipper up and cursing the bulging bra, and he smiled.

"Yes, yes, _nothing_. My dear, as pleasant of a surprise that was, hold it off until the both of us are in Tenpenny Tower, yes? Away from this _filth_." Alma internally sighed in relief. That had almost been too close to bear.

* * *

"Charon! Oh, I have _fantastic _news!"

He didn't look up from his rifle. He didn't want to see her.

"Come now, Charon, look a little bit less sullen, why don't you?" Against his will, he looked up to her, controlling the muscles in his face to stay stoic. For whatever reason, he was having a harder time than normal keeping his anger from showing. His employer sighed and he followed her with his eyes as she turned and sat down on the bed, across from his chair. She crossed her legs and ran a hand through her hair, her smile burning into his retinas. "Charon," she began, "We have a house."

"... A _house_?"

"Yes! A house. A private space all to our own. Where we don't have to worry about things being stolen or commotion from our neighbors - " her eyes jerked to the wall they shared with Nova's room. He silently agreed about said commotion; Nova's room had kept him awake the night before, after the smoothskin had gone to sleep, and had him wanting to blast a hole in her wall and subsequently beat her and her customer to death. "After Burke left at twelve, I took Simms aside and told him of the man's intentions. He didn't believe me at first, but when I showed him a document I had sneaked from his briefcase describing his and his boss' desire to create a Megaton version of Hiroshima, " Charon felt the edges of his lips twitch in a frown. Another one of her weird words. "He agreed to keep the man and any people from him out of Megaton. In reward, he gave us the key to that house by the main gates. The big two story one."

Charon grimaced. As much as he agreed that revealing Burke to be a murderous asshole was a big feat, he didn't like the sound of a free house. There had to have been a catch. The wastes didn't work that way. "What does he expect in return?"

"Funny you should ask; Simms said we'll have to pay rent to him for the house, but after a set amount, it'll be officially ours. But, think about it Charon. An official _home_. A bed, if not two. A study, a living room, a kitchen, a loft. It's _fantastic_." He watched her flop on the bed, the springs creaking in protest. "He even said it would come with a robot. The last time I saw one of those was in the vault, so I'm wondering if there will be any difference in wasteland 'bots?"

Even though he was interested in seeing the interior of the house, the sight of her trying to flatten her hair and pulling the gun out of her suit; it made him angry. As great of an achievement it was for her, the path she took to it was mortifying. How long had she been in Burke's house? What had they talked about? What... what had they _done_? The ass had booted him out of the Brass Lantern's outside bar and he had to wait for her up by Moriarty's. His vantage point by then had been ridiculously off, and he had only been able to hear a noise as loud as a gunshot from the hovel instead of anything else. He hadn't been able see her or hear her, charge in the house if something had gone wrong. And she had been locked in that shack with Burke. It had eaten at him so much that he had been fuming and snapping at any smoothskin that passed too closely by. And after seeing her and Burke emerge after an hour of steadily increasing anger, and watching the bastard disappear behind the gates, he had stormed back into the saloon and set to polishing and meticulously examining his shotgun for at least another hour, in as much silence as the saloon could grant.

"Alright, I'm decent now, so you don't have to glare at me like that anymore." He laughed coldly in his mind at the word 'decency'. As if she had been decent _before_ she did this. He would much rather stare at the wall, too, but he decided to keep his eyes trained on her. "We're going to talk with Moriarty about the house, of course, and then we're going to go settle in a little bit before we head off to Rivet City."

"Why so soon, if I may ask?"

She put her hands on her hips as she looked at him, thinking for a moment. Her Pip-Boy was fastened to her left forearm again, like a gauntlet that could play radio. "Well, because, I feel like we're not getting a lot of work done. I don't want you to while your time away doing nothing, it's unfair. And I want to get better at shooting, and the trip there should have plenty of opportunities to practice, hm?" His outlook on their future trip was cynical. He would suffer even more if they went to Rivet City, dealing with both her shit and the outer ruins of D.C. at the same time. It was just as dangerous as the inner workings of the decimated city. Charon looked back down to his shotgun, the black metal gleaming slightly in the dim light of their room. As he stared, he felt that deep burning anger again. An anger he wasn't used to having, he realized. And, if he felt deeper down, he could sense another, more obscure and confusing emotion. Something that made him want look back up at her expectant face and wish for it to catch on fire and melt away, and at the same time, never be scarred with the hell of the wastes.

"Yeah, plenty of opportunities."


	18. Potomac

**AN:** Oof another not so good short chapter. Sorry, guys. When I don't have the ability to spend time on my chapters, they don't turn out too well. REVIEW.

* * *

**|Chapter 17 - Potomac|**

Wilhelm's Wharf, for a change, was actually silent. Granted, they were on the _other_ side of the Potomac, but it made no matter. Charon knew for a fact that the place was dangerously subject to raids and super mutant takeovers, having often seen a miniature war duked out along the property and even on their own side of the river. He never went to the place himself; it was too close to the river bank, enough that mirelurks would have set their slanted little red eyes on him and followed him all the way to Megaton. And he hated mirelurks. The damned things were like living tanks. They left such an annoying impression on him, that he could still remember the first time he came across one. That particular one had scared the fuck out of him, and it was only thanks to his employer telling him where to shoot the fucking thing that he didn't get a pincer to the esophagus.

Charon looked ahead to his employer, who was walking happily down the street, tinkering with her Pip-Boy. He scowled. Her optimism was poison. The whole day had been nothing but hell for him, and she didn't even seem to realize it. First, there was that foolish seducing of Burke, then there was her argument with Moriarty about her alcohol shipment plans. Of course, she had won again and managed to get it to go exactly _her_ way, being able to abide by the same rules as before and having a house all to her own, but he was too angry at her to care. And going into that damned house had only made it worse.

It ended up that indeed, a robot had come with the place. A Mr. Handy by the name of Wadsworth. He had repainted and polished himself to welcome his new master, or as he put it, mistress, at the front door. The robot never left them alone, or _her _alone for that matter. As they had gone through the abode looking at every feature that came with it, the robot had obediently followed and commented on her hair, her suit, her eyes, her everything. It was a machine built for flattery. And proximity. If it could, the machine would nudge past him and float as close to her as possible, and its arms would even preen at her or clean up and organize anything within its immediate area. In fact, the robot hardly mentioned him at all in its ramblings, and if it did, even for a metallic cockney accent, it would sound distasteful. Even the three optic sensors on its hull kept themselves trained on either her or something in the room that was not Charon. He wondered if a machine alone could be bigoted without being programmed to do so, and then he remembered Cerberus in Underworld. They very well damn could be.

"Oh Charon, it's Butcher Pete! I love this song, too." His smoothskin turned and smiled at him. "Do you like this song? Maybe it's more of your style, hmm?"

Butcher Pete. He didn't have an opinion on it whatsoever. "Ah, no, Miss. I don't like this particular song."

"You don't seem to like any music, do you?" She sighed and turned back around, continuing their march to Rivet City.

As soon as the lyrics hit the line where Roy Brown talked about Pete killing nonstop, Charon realized he indeed had an opinion on it. It reminded him of the Super Duper Mart. He looked over his shoulder, down the Potomac, and to the grocery store in the distance, sitting at the base of the hill separating Megaton from itself. The sun was about ready to set, and already it was casting the burning orange glow on the crest of the hill, making the street lights and broken cars in its parking lot glisten in the light. They had been in there only an hour ago. He could remember how _surreal_ it was to wander inside... and see what he saw. Know what he knew.

* * *

"Hey, Charon, let's stop by the grocery store real quick. I need to get some supplies for us." The parking lot was riddled with shell casings and splattered blood. In fact, even the doors to the establishment that they walked so unceremoniously through were coated in dried blood and relatively fresh bullet holes.

As soon as he set his sights on the interior of the store, he immediately affirmed that it used to be a raider den. It was dark and dirty, blood coating every surface by the entrance, and meat hooks hanging from the ceiling. Shell casings of bullets and empty husks of chems littered the floor. Kitchenware and leather strips sat in piles around the store along with broken pieces of guns and robots. Yet, aside from that, there weren't rotting limbs of humans and animals on the meat hooks themselves. Torsos of traitorous raiders did not hang from the ceilings, and though it was apparent that there had been a massive battle inside the grocery, as floor and shelving alike had black stains from grenade blasts on them, it was void of organic matter. The bodies of the fighters were nowhere to be found.

Hadn't his employer mentioned something about raiding the Super Duper Mart?

"Oof," She mumbled as she wandered to the cash registers, kicking aside a few tin cans in her wake, "I hate how dirty it is in here." Compared to what it must have been before, it was impeccable. He followed her through to the far right side of the grocery, where a HAM radio sat on the encircling counter. Beyond it were shelves and crates, of course, coated with blood and grime. Only a lone refrigerator sat in the corner, and he watched her hop over the counter and subsequently search through the crates. "Charon, I may be here for a while. Would you please go to the pharmacy and the bathrooms and check for any supplies?"

He grunted his affirmation and turned to leave, happy to be rid of her presence for some time. He was still very much pissed off at her for the Burke incident. And as he made his way to the back of the store, he found even more evidence of a large-scale skirmish, including dud grenades lying on the floor.

"Charon, don't shoot the Protectron in the pharmacy, by the way. He's not hostile." He voice rang out from the PA system as he approached the hall connected to the pharmacy. Coincidentally, the door creaked open as he stepped over a burned mattress, and the little machine stalked out, its hull dented from bullets.

It turned to face Charon as he approached, speaking up loudly in its metallic voice, "Friendly detected. Hello, gracious shopper. Please, be on your way." And it sidled away from the pharmacy door, allowing Charon inside. He liked Protectrons. They were mindless, easy to manipulate since their optic sensors and voice detection were usually poor. Easy to destroy, too, if the need arose. The pharmacy itself was empty of any useful items, save for bandages and old medicine that his smoothskin would like to have. He pocketed the small, worthless things and left, hopping over the counter to head towards the bathrooms. He heard the Protectron chide him for doing such a thing, but it ignored him otherwise as he disappeared around the corner.

Both of the bathroom doors were open, and he turned to look in the women's room first. Save for a few more mattresses and chem husks, there was nothing of importance. The place had already been wiped clean of loot, and he took note of a half-intact mirror in front of him. The only reason he did, was that a bullet was stuck in it along with bits of flesh and a rather graceful arc of dried blood. A sneak attack. And impressive one too, since it could have only been executed in the hall right outside the door. Yet Charon was still suspicious of the lack of bodies in the place, and as he turned to the men's room, he wondered if his smoothskin had indeed raided the place, or if she had been lying.

That was when it hit him.

A foul, rotting stench. The sound of buzzing flies and the chattering of a couple radroaches.

And it came from the men's room.

He approached the doorway cautiously, doubting something living was there, but still prepared for the worst. Large streaks of blood on the tile floor lead to the door. Not streaks of a person wounded. Streaks of a body dragged. Had he not noticed them before? Charon looked over his shoulder, out to the rest of the store. No, he hadn't. Various evidence of corpses being dragged and dripping limbs carried lead straight to his direction, the bathroom's direction. How had he missed it? He turned back to the doorway and grimaced as he came closer and stepped inside, immediately slinging his shotgun into his hands. The stench was so strong it bothered his own nose, which was quite a feat to accomplish.

In the bathroom, tumbling out of stalls, piled in back corners, stripped of gear and clothing, sat the various carcasses and dismembered limbs of raiders. Some were missing heads. Some had holes through their chests that displayed the other body underneath. Skin was taught and torn, open wounds festered with maggots. Two radroaches were happily standing on the bodies, chewing at a thigh together. There were even bites in the corpses' arms and legs akin to that of a dog's, those filled in with maggots as well. It was a horrific sight, or it would have been, to any smoothskin.

To any smoothskin.

His smoothskin.

She had raided the Super Duper Mart.

* * *

The Anchorage War memorial was behind them by the time Butcher Pete had concluded. Before them sat a large hotel, bordered off with barbed wire and sandbags. His employer turned to look at him, "Let's go see what's in there." He shrugged. It wasn't like he could say no. But, as much as he didn't spend much time on the outskirts of the ruins, something about the place seemed familiar.

"Are you sure we should stop? The sun is still out, we could make it further to Rivet City if we keep going." He decided he would talk to her. The anger was ebbing away. No need to make her feel more alienated when he himself didn't feel like doing so anymore.

"We're just going to take a break and explore. We haven't seen any raiders or anything since, well, forever ago." She set her course to the back of the hotel, that faced the ruins. He looked back at the memorial, the bank of the river raised on a sort of watery path towards it. The base of the memorial was laced with eggs encased in black slime. Mirelurk eggs. The mirelurks themselves were standing on the bank, about five in their pack, but they weren't doing whatever mirelurks do. Chattering, head butting each other, even swimming or wandering about. They were staring. At the both of them.

"Miss, go as far from the river as possible." He told her, and she stopped and turned. Her Pip-Boy was still blaring music. "And turn off your radio." He glanced back at the mirelurks. They had moved closer. One of them snapped its bluish black pincers and sent a wave of chattering among them

He felt her walk up to him, "Charon what's..." then her eyes caught on the animals. "What are those?..." He inched to the river bed and looked down the cement wall to the bank below. He'd be damned. A whole clutch of eggs were on the wall and leading down into the water. If he wanted to, he could have reached down and snatched one up himself, or simply crushed it with his fist. That was why the mirelurks were staring at them. Moving closer to them. They had unintentionally wandered too close to their eggs. And they had seen it. And they were coming closer. And more were coming out of the water directly next to them. By the time his employer began to realize what was happening, there were ten more rising from the Potomac and behind the walls of the Memorial.

There was no chance in hell that the both of them could fend off the beasts. Not with her inability to shoot and their lack of weaponry. "Miss."

"Yeah, Charon?"

"That hotel behind us, how far away is it?" He felt her begin to back up, and he ripped his shotgun from his back, backing up with her. He hoped the hotel doors were unlocked. And that the place was either empty, or had friendlies inside. And that it could hold off a horde of mirelurks ramming into its doors.

"Um, not too far, what about it?"

"... Run."


	19. Aim, Shoot, Aim

**AN: **So, since I have been devoid of a computer to type at and form and reform my chapters, I have been reduced to *gasp* actually writing out my chapters. As I am not a visual typer, it takes longer than normal to copy up my writing to a computer, and it pisses me the fuck off. Hopefully I'll get my laptop soon or something, because I will die if I don't.

I thought of possibly recreating the more interesting scenes in my story on fallout itself and taking pictures, since Alma on my game is relatively new and is on her mission to saving Bigtown before heading over to GNR. Just a little thought. AND PLEASE REVIEW, WHETHER YOU HAVE AN ACCOUNT OR NOT. Especially you lurkers out there. I love to hear your opinions on my chapters, and silence doesn't motivate me at all.

* * *

**|Chapter 18 - Aim, Shoot, Aim...|**

Her fist slammed on the door so hard it hurt, turning the side of her hand a bright pink. She was only afraid because he was worried. She would come to learn that things were only okay if he felt they were. And right now, they weren't.

She didn't know what they were. Identifying them has been less important than trying to bash down the hotel door. Behind her, the blasts of his shotgun exploded in her ears. Turning her head to look at their pursuers, she gasped at the sheer number of the mob. Over twenty were enclosing on the two of them, her bodyguard cursing and destroying one of their faces with his gun. More of them molded out of the Potomac, and his eyes turned to meet with hers. Her fist had stopped pounding.

"Miss, get that damned door open if you don't want to be _fucking _mirelurk food!" They were called mirelurks. Watching their bluish-white, bluish-black bodies glisten, slick with water, reminded her of the giant claw she found in that raider camp with him three days ago. Had... had it only been four days of them being a team, including today?

She pressed her ear to the door and heard faint voices approaching. "I think someone's coming," she shouted over the din of his shots. Yes, it had only been four days, not counting the day it had taken for her to leave GNR and briefly settle in at Carol's. The fact that they had known each other for only four days made their connection to each other so _impersonal_. That was why he didn't like her, clenched his fists and ground his teeth when annoyed by her. She was an immature employer. Not a friend. He didn't view her as any different than Ahzrukhal, save for the wanting to kill her bit.

She hoped.

He had been pushed back so far by the mirelurks that he was shielding her with his body, "What is wrong with these fucking people - _open the goddamn door_!" His gravel voice ate into her ears. A voice that had no feelings for her. Only that damned ironic formality of employee to employer. Now, he was against her; she could feel his shoulder blades flex and move across her back, even though they were encased in leather and much higher up than her own. Her stomach churned at his touch and she thought bitterly that he probably felt the same way.

Their bodies both fell through space, colliding on the floor in a heap of limbs.

"_Shit_! Fantasia, honey, help me pull them in!"

Confusion.

"Hey hey hey, shoot at the fucking 'lurks, not at _me_!"

They were pulled, in their still tangled and confused form, into the darkened hotel. She turned her head to see a man and a woman muscling the front door shut, the mirelurks exerting just as much force back. Help. They needed help.

"Charon!" She still had to yell, half out of adrenaline and half out of the noise of the man and woman shouting at each other and the mirelurks pounding on the doors and wall. As one, they simultaneously rolled apart and stood, their boots scuffing the grimy tile floor. Immediately, her eyes set on a queen sized bed in the middle of the lobby. Next to it, crouched and biting on her nails, was a frightened red headed woman, her attention entirely on the struggle at the doors.

"Yeah?" Their eyes met for the second time.

She pointed, already moving towards, "the bed-" He picked up on her command instantly and joined her side, both of them grabbing and pushing the bed along the floor. The sheets were entangled and riddled with empty vodka, scotch, whiskey, wine and beer bottles that rolled off, landing and smashing apart precariously underneath their boots and around their ankles. The noise of the legs of the bed screeching on the tile alerted the man and woman, who were pushing against the doors with all of their strength. They let her and Charon come as close to them as possible until diving away and letting the bed crash into the straining doors.

"Fantasia, the pool table!" They both began to overturn the bed against the doors. A rotten fishy smell emitting from the mirelurks wafted through the cracks in the doors to her nostrils, making her head throb in disgust and her throat force her to cough. It was so inhibiting that it made her body react with weakness, too caught up in the stench. By now, Charon was doing most, if not all of the work.

"Move out of the fucking way!" On instinct, using the man's exclamation as cues, they dove to either side of the bed and heard the pool table knock hard against the bottom of the bed, helping hold the doors shut.

"Dukey, we gotta get rid of those mirelurks..." She turned to see the red head cowering and pointing up the stairs. The man simply waved his hand at her dismissively, the crossing his arms in thought.

"I _fucking_ know that, Cherry. And, seeing as how our new friends here helped bring this _fucking_ infestation in, they'll sure as _fuck_ help us get rid of it." He turned a vicious glare to the both of them, and she sighed, Charon grumbling inaudibly and sidling next to her. Shielding her.

"Of course we'll help. Sorry for the inconvenience."

* * *

Fantasia whooped in excitement as a single shot from the man she only knew as "Dukey" capped a mirelurk. She sighed and glanced down at her Pip-Boy. It was six in the afternoon and they had been holed up in the hotel for around two hours. It wouldn't have bothered her as much if she had just been allowed to look around. But, she was obliged to stay, and too afraid to leave. Charon sat at the window before her, using her rifle to help kill off the mutated crustaceans. "Dukey" was at the other window in a dusty armchair embroidered with golden fig leaves, denoting the high class value that the hotel once was a proud owner of. Fantasia, a black woman with cropped hair, supplied him with plenty of motivation and alcohol. Cherry simply provided the man with back massages and extra ammo for his own .32 that was polished to an impressive sheen.

"_So_," he stopped aiming out of the window to turn and look at her. She had chosen to sit behind Charon on the hotel room's bed, after having brushed away a mass of cobwebs that had stretched from its sheets to the peeling wall. "What had _fucking_ compelled you to bring a _fucking_ horde of 'lurks to our doors, hmm?"

"I'm really sorry, sir. It was completely unintentional. One minute we're on our way to Rivet City, and the next, we're being chased down by the whole Potomac."

He slapped his tongue to his lips noisily, grabbing up the party-sized bottle of vodka next to his armchair and slurping down a few gulps. "Call me Dukov." A Russian name, she could tell. Even his speech, though somewhat slurred with alcohol, was definitely Russian. Though he had steadily consumed three other bottles of the lukewarm vodka since they had taken roost on the third floor, he managed to hold his alcohol very well. "I may as well ask what your name is, sweet cheeks."

"It's Alma." Her eyes turned to Charon. His wall of silence stayed firm, unchanging. Almost embarrassingly so. He hadn't spoken since they had accompanied the Russian and women up to the third floor.

"Alma? What a _pretty_ name," Dukov poured more vodka into his mouth before turning back to the window. As he aimed, she realized that he was clad in nothing but silken maroon pajamas and black slippers. Even Fantasia and Cherry, now that she actually looked at them, were in pink silk teddies and bare feet. What had they been doing before she and Charon had barged in? "You little ghoul friend sure is a _fucking_ chatterbox, eh?" The girls forced themselves to laugh and silently gave Dukov compliments on his humor.

Out of the corner of her eyes, Alma caught Charon's hand fly up. She turned to her duffel bag and fumbled through it, and her fingers closed around a box of rifle bullets. Tossing it to him, he caught it without a flinch and immediately reloaded. "Well, when he's shooting, he tends to be very focused. Talking would break that concentration."

"Pfft, he's nothing but a fucking buzz kill to me."

"He takes his job very seriously, Dukov," she reprimanded, and Dukov laughed.

"Job? He's fucking _employed _to you?"

Alma grimaced; the grossly excessive obscenity was starting to bother her. "He's my bodyguard, an escort. But we really do work together." Dukov laughed again and took another swig of alcohol, Fantasia congratulating him on his marksmanship. Alma stood and approached Charon's window, discreetly glancing in Dukov's direction. The number of felled mirelurks near his window was greatly fewer than Charon's, and she felt a spike of pride for him. Her melancholy had lifted some since her episode earlier, and she at least acknowledged that they were a team. And a damned good one, too, compared to Dukov and his girlfriends. She watched silently, observant as Charon methodically aimed, shot, aimed, shot, aimed...

"So he's a bodyguard? Why'd you choose _him_? He's obviously not much _fun_, now, is he?" He laughed; his rifle blasted at a mirelurk. It faltered slightly, the bullet piercing the carapace, yet continued its assault, ramming against the wall. His aim was poor. Whether or not he was drunk, she suspected he wasn't that great to begin with. The bullet from Charon's rifle lodged itself in the eye of a mirelurk, toppling the beast to the concrete.

She sidled next to Charon, wanting to see the action from his level. He tilted his head up at her, yet he kept his eyes on the mirelurks. A smile, slight and appreciating, formed on her lips as he moved over so she could sit and see out the window. "I just felt that he was the best for the job." Alma looked over to Dukov. He was chugging his vodka down, Fantasia quietly cheering him on and Cherry's hands working at his neck. "Plus, his old employer was an asshole. He deserved someone better." Though, did he? She didn't doubt that he most likely wished his contract was in more capable hands. She needed to live up to his expectations as his employer. The good expectations.

"Charon, let me have a go at it, please." Her bodyguard merely grunted in response and lifted the rifle from its perch, handing it to her. She needed to prove that she was a good shot. The rifle was a tad heavy; she hadn't used one personally in three days. But, it was still a gun, and she still knew how to fire, how to kill. She settled the rifle down on the windowsill, bent down, and closed her left eye, staring down the barrel to the mirelurks below. There was still a large amount of them. Their hive mind wouldn't let them stop clawing and backing at the wall. The only reason there were so many left was because their executions had been done at a leisurely pace. Which was why they had been stuck on the third floor for going on three hours.

She had to keep herself from jerking the rifle in surprise. Charon's arms had wrapped around her.

"Charon, what are you-"

"Don't close an eye when aiming." His hands fell over her own, his right index resting atop her trigger finger. "Your line of sight isn't as precise when only one eye sees." Alma blushed, embarrassed at her hearts inability to stop pounding furiously. She felt his head lower next to hers, his chin resting on her shoulder. A glance at Dukov gave her some relief; he was busy talking with the girls as he shot at the mirelurks, eyes trained on the beasts below. At least his obnoxious hide wouldn't notice and proceed to embarrass her further.

"Charon, I didn't ask you to help me," she pointed out quietly, so she wouldn't attract Dukov's attention.

"As your protector," he began, moving the rifle to aim at a lone mirelurk at the back of the horde, "it is my duty to keep you from harm. But, I could be incapacitated, and you would be left to defend _yourself_." While she listened, he squeezed her trigger finger and the rifle sent a bullet to the mirelurk's mouth, ripping it to shreds and leaving green fluids leaking down its abdomen. "My reasoning is that we will be stuck here until morning, we have plenty of targets, and practice is the best course to take." Another mirelurk lost half of its face. "And teaching you how to _correctly _use a rifle will ultimately increase your safety." The next mirelurk actually spiraled to the floor as its forehead exploded. "So, acting without orders is now justified."

Inwardly, she was proud of him yet again. She always hated his contract's specifications. Even though he was still following its rules, it felt like he had much more freedom. Yet outwardly, she was still incredibly uncomfortable. His lesson plan was based on business and abiding by the rules of the contract, not on actual human concern for her safety, not even a friendly thought. Emotionless. Cold.

"Now, you _are_ holding the rifle right." The bottom of his gloved palm butt against her left hand's grip on the stock and her trigger hand. "Feel where the end of the stock hits on you. Does it rest on the bone of your shoulder?"

Alma pulled the rifle back and felt the metal end knock up against her clavicle, "Ah, yeah?"

"That's bad. Move it down so it won't kick back into your bones. The flesh below your shoulder bone will cushion the impact."

"Teaching her how to shoot, huh?" Dukov's heavily inebriated voice bowled over the both of them. She felt Charon stiffen. If he didn't like Dukov, she was completely fine with that.

"Yes."

"I don't see why you should. _You're_ the fucking soldier and _she's_ the commander in chief." Alma turned her head to look at Dukov. The girls had left back to the second floor, she figured, as he was all alone and taking deep drinks from his vodka bottle. He yawned and looked out the window, the sky turning a dark reddish purple with an amused grin on his lips. "Why should _she_ learn when you'll do all of her fucking fighting _for_ her? In _fact_," Dukov graciously shook his bottle of vodka in her direction, "why not let her have a drink? Maybe, maybe hand her off to me for a while. I can teach her a few _tricks_, yeah?" Charon growled, but turned back to her, ignoring the man. He didn't seem to care, chugging down the last of the vodka and throwing it out of the window, and in exchange Charon resumed his instruction of using the rear sight and foresight to aim perfectly, and even lectured her on the concept of windage.

"Take a deep breath." Alma closed her eyes, inhaling deeply but quietly. "When you exhale, focus on your target," as her breath exited her nose, she aimed at a single exposed mirelurk. "Three." Her eyes fixed on the eyes of the mirelurk, red and puffy. "Two." She felt his hands let go of the rifle, and she stiffened her arms. "One."

The mirelurk flailed, its whole body crashing against another before falling to the ground, the green blood pooling under its face. A huge grin spread on her face, and she turned to smile up at him, but was met with a cold, harsh gaze. A suspicious one. A serious, knowing gaze.

"I know what you did in that Super Duper Mart."

Her smile fell.


	20. From the Beginning

**AN: **Oh my goodness, thanks to every one of you who reviewed since the submission of my last chapter. I didn't know I was loved so much! A special thanks goes to Salekdarling, for a review I definitely won't forget. But yes, thank you to everyone! I'm glad you all love this story so much, and I'll try as hard as I can to keep you all reading. But like it's been said and mentioned before, this is a symbiotic relationship! I submit, you review, we're all happy and dandy and Boom keeps writing for all of you out there.

Remember! REVIEW!

* * *

**|Chapter 19 - From the Beginning|**

"Saw... saw what I did?" Charon suddenly felt extremely superior to her. She was so shocked by his statement that the rifle in her hands almost fell out the window and amidst the mirelurks below. "What do you mean by that?"

"The corpses in the men's room. Stacked up in a heap, missing limbs and chewed up by dogs. A bloody mess in there." His employer physically recoiled, moving back against the wall, the back of her head hitting the windowsill. "Does any of this sound familiar to you?" He watched her eyes dart to the right, in Dukov's direction. The room was very dark, and the dim light from outside only hit the man's legs. She may not have recognized it, but the man was either sleeping or unconscious from his enormous intake of vodka. "Dukov is asleep. He won't hear anything you might want to say, Miss."

"... I thought that door had been locked. It wasn't locked?"

"No, Miss." His smoothskin seemed to deflate; she pulled the rifle, which she had left leaning on the windowsill, down to the floor. On a whim, he bent forward and clicked on the safety, and she blushed, most likely flustered that she was caught in the wrong again. He could definitely tell she hadn't planned on him learning of her massacre in the store. The fact he surprised, even terrified her, had given him a sense of empowerment. He had to admit, he was impressed with the way he had confronted her. Calming her into defenselessness and then springing his trap, catching her in an immensely vulnerable state, "It was quite an eye-opening sight."

His employer sighed and sat on her heels, her hand running over the rifle. Her Pip-Boy glowed in the dark room, slightly lighting up her face. She was thinking hard, her eyes focusing on the barrel of the gun in concentration. As he watched her think, he noticed her features, her lips, eyes, brows, had pulled into an upset anger, her silence seeming to amplify her emotions. After a moment, his employer turned her face up to him, staring. Though, it didn't seem like she was really seeing him; her distant, thoughtful gaze went through his eyes, past his skull, saw through the ceiling and watched the stars above.

"Miss?"

When he spoke, her eyes blunk a couple times and she snapped her head down from staring up at him, and she bit her lip. Back in reality. She wrung her hands as she spoke, sounding apprehensive but truthful and serious, "Do you, do you have anything to say to that? Want to know what had happened? I want you to want what you want because what you want," she took a breath, "is what I want." She actually wanted him to question her? Though, when he thought about it, he did expect she would react in such a usually strange way, at least to him. He folded his arms, a stance he often took when ready to lecture her, he realized, and both took a deep breath for the oncoming speech and braced himself for anything she might do after he spoke.

"Really, this discovery proves I know _nothing_ about you." The opening sentence was too familiar to him. He had said it many times before, to different employers, and it always felt like deja vu when he had to use it. "It's nothing new for me, I've had plenty of employers without a past. Some didn't even bother speaking to me outside of _orders_. So of course, Miss, it is not my decision on whether or not you tell me about your past, and you need not feel obliged or even compelled to do so." By chance, he looked out of the window to see that the sun was completely set, the sky molding from a dark purple to a navy blue. Soon enough, the moon would reign, completing the wasteland's transition from sun baked rock to ethereal blue and white sands. "You did say you had raided that Super Duper Mart, so I would imagine that you can't deny that if you admitted to it."

He expected a vocal response, a sudden outburst of an explanation, but she remained silent. "I don't intend to offend you," he continued on, "but I had always assumed you were inexperienced at firearms, or at least using them in combat."

A loud thump of flesh and bone on rotting cherry wood parquet wrenched him from his speech and his employer from her thoughts. Dukov was struggling to his feet, wobbling on unstable knees. Somehow, the drunk had fallen out of the armchair. He straightened up as much as a person heavily intoxicated could muster, and stumbled to the window, almost throwing himsilf to the mirelurks as he tripped and landed on the windowsill. They watched silently, listening to him begin to retch; either his hangover had come early, or he didn't hold his alcohol as well as he thought.

"Huh..." he belched, "the 'lurks... I think they're sleeping?" Dukov tottered away from the window, looking around the dark room until his eyes caught on them. He stared at them for a while, then he took an empty chug from the empty vodka bottle, stumbling back some as he lost his already unsteady balance. When he lowered the bottle, he crooked an eyebrow at them, then took another air-filled swig before he headed for the door. "Fucking lucky _bastard_," he muttered, before collapsing on the floor outside the room. "... Fucking _floors_."

The both of them sat still and listened, hearing the Russian scramble to his feet and thud down the hall, until the thuds became thumps, then pats, then silence. After making sure the man was definitely out of eavesdropping range, he turned back to his employer. She was busy wringing her hands again and staring at his boots. He could even glimpse a look of worry in her eyes. Was there something more to her past than he thought? He had only been assuming she was pretending she was inept at combat, and nothing more. But now he was genuinely intrigued.

"Charon..." she began, and she took a deep breath before looking up to him with complete sincerity, "as you might already suspect, I'm not quite an innocent little vault dweller only out to look for her daddy. I've more experience in these affairs than I let on." His employer stood up, stretching, and folded her arms, one hand absentmindedly pulling on a loose lock of hair from her sideburns. She went silent, most likely preparing herself for whatever she was about to tell him. Truthfully, he wasn't going to be necessarily shocked at anything she was going to say. He would be naturally surprised if she admitted to, say, having killed a whole settlement of children and old people, but he wouldn't be shocked. His past employers made sure of that, and even he himself had skeletons that would most likely blow any of hers out of the water. "I suppose I should give you the whole explanation, from start to finish. It would be the only way to justify anything I'll say later"

"_How_ long will this take, Miss?" It was a general question, he only wanted to know so he could suggest she stop pacing around in front of him and annoying him and give her legs a rest, but he caught an upset look in her face. As if what he said had hurt her.

"Oh, I suppose some time. I'll sit down, if that's what you're implying." She immediately grabbed the rig leaf armchair and dragged it over to their window, sitting it in the moonlight and plopping herself down on it. A cloud of dust rose from the old thing, and she coughed and swat it away. "Ah, well," she coughed, "time to tell you my life's story." His smoothskin adjusted her Pip-Boy so it would light up her face and the room in general, so she could see him as well. "I was raised in Vault 101, as you might have guessed by my vault suit and the fact I look like I actually brush my hair and teeth. My mother died during my birth, so I was raised by my father alone. He's an amazing man, a scientist of his own right, but knew enough about medicine and treatments to earn a spot as the vault doctor and surgeon. His name is James Adler, and my mother's name was Catherine."

In contrast, Charon couldn't remember anything of his parents. Sometimes, he suspected he never had any. Of course he knew that it was impossible to have a person exist without being born from parents, but, if he had been raised by parents, he was sure he would have remembered. All he could remember of authoritative caretakers was the people who he hated the most. He was glad that they were dead. Of course he hadn't _killed_ them; he couldn't. But, it had been long enough in his lifespan that they had died, whether it had been due to age, sickness, or murder. Good _fucking_ riddance.

"Life in the vault was, well, interesting. It was capable of holding, oh, say maybe a hundred, possibly two hundred, people in it? But apparently as time went on, the number decreased pretty dramatically. We had around eleven families inside, and a good number of single people as well." She sighed slightly and looked down at her Pip-Boy, deciding to fiddle with the buttons and dials on it. "Growing up, I lived around the same ten people all of my life, and though we had our disputes, we were like a family. My best friend Amata was the Overseer's daughter, and we often got nagged at by the rest of the kids because we were 'suck-ups'. Especially by Butch DeLoria, that _asshole_..."

The word friend was a word Charon only knew, never experienced or understood. He wasn't raised to have _"friends"_ and _"buddies"_. He was raised to obey. Having a friend in that conditioning would have broken the eventual curse his caretakers had put over him. And they had told him that, too. They never left him with questions, unless those questions were purely fueled by emotions, which he had never asked anyways. The first time as a child that he had asked them why they didn't like him, he had been slapped in the face and denied food for two days. All a part of the conditioning. Rule number one was obey, and rule number two was any emotion aside from anger or apathy is wrong and corrupt, and clouds the mind. Though he wondered what would have happened if he had been allowed to express emotions, he appreciated his lack of them. He wouldn't have survived with them, that was for sure.

The smoothskin shifted her legs, crossing them and leaning on the arm of the chair, "When I turned nineteen... everything changed. It wasn't a perfect, isolated life anymore. School and friends didn't matter anymore. My father had escaped the vault. The Overseer had decided to kill anyone panicking, and I had to leave or I would die." The moon was almost at its peak, its white light casting on her figure through the window, making her skin on her hands glow. "I don't know where dad went. I _killed_ a man because he almost shot me in the head, and then I killed another and another... I was locked out of the vault and the world was so... so _dead_. But I was hopeful. I was terrified, and my eyes had burned for the whole day I first stepped out in the wastes, but I was _hopeful,_ I was ready to leave behind that life. Megaton had been in the distance, and inside it were the people that would give me a place to stay, food and education on survival, someone to talk to and something to while the time away while I slowly got info out of Moriarty about my father's whereabouts. A headquarters for me, so to speak."

"I felt such a strong gratitude for these people. They all didn't like me at first; a vault dweller from the very vault their ancestors had been denied access or _died_ trying to get inside. But as I went around town, fixing leaks in the water purifier, running errands for people, helping carry stock for their stores inside the gates and entertaining the few children there, they started to accept me." His employer put her hands to her face, before running them up and over her head and leaning back, crossing her arms again. Her expression turned from thoughtful to displeased. "And my... _less_ inspirational history began when Lucy West asked me to deliver a letter to Arefu and I had to negotiate delicate matters of people feeding on people for survival, and when I found myself in a minefield trying to gather up the explosives for Moira, just to help her with her damned _book_."

"If it hadn't been for Petie, I would have gone insane. I found myself questioning my _sanity_ when I had been wandering towards the minefield. Was I really going to walk right into a place that could _kill_ me if I didn't examine every inch of the rock and pavement? Was I really going to do something as crazy as trying to _disarm_ active and very much deadly mines?" A huge sigh escaped her lips and she took another deep breath. Yep, she was what he thought she was. A delicate little vault dweller that was easily impressionable. Her mental state had gone for a ride when she had left her cave and saw the light. He found himself looking down on her, but realized he couldn't. He really could not belittle the girl. Her whole life had been living in a fantasy encased in metal and artificial lighting, and then her father runs away; she sees the country for what it really is, and forces herself to do things only wastelanders would understand and not want to kill themselves over. "It had only been luck that I found that dog, and I feel, sometimes, it had only been luck that he had found _me_."

"... You named it _Petie_?"

The girl actually chuckled at his question when she heard it. Listening to her laugh... it did something to his chest. It felt strange, almost _pained_. And it felt strong. "Yes, I named him Petie. He's an adorable dog, save for when I first met him. Blood all over and scared of everything within a one mile radius. His owner had been killed by raiders... But I digress. He and I, when we were in minefield, well, we found a person. Half dead, blood pouring out of their wounds, and as vicious to us as a trapped animal." His employer checked her Pip-Boy again, and made a small, inaudible comment on something before she looked back up to him. He almost found himself asking what had happened, but he kept silent. Even so, she has seemed to detect his curiosity. "If I hadn't managed to keep a grip on Petie when we first met, things would have been a lot different," her legs shifted around again, "such as her ending up dead."


	21. Intermission

**AN:** So, writing this was fun. It was something different from the norm, and it's awesome. Oh, and just because I congratulated you all does not mean that you stop reviewing! I loved your input and knowing what makes you like my story enough to follow it. It really does motivate, and you even give me ideas for my chapters too. So don't feel like you're going unheard, I appreciate all of your reviews.

* * *

**|Chapter 20 - Intermission - Something New|**

The explosions and gunfire rang in her ears as she dove for the door to the house, her bloodied hand leaving a grisly imprint on its chipped white finish. Her other hand clenched to her stomach, making her gasp in pain as her fingers felt the life fluid pour and spatter on the ground, the doorjamb, the floor. Her torment was so excruciating, she couldn't even stay on her feet. Her body unwillingly tumbled to the floor, her head almost knocking against a two hundred year old coffee table. Spitting her sweaty, fire-orange hair out of her mouth, she pulled herself up, groaning in pain as more blood gushed on her lap. Her now aching back laid against the table's edge, propping herself up so she could watch the confusion and carnage outside.

"Where the _fuck_ did Smudge go to?" She chuckled spitefully as she watched Grease dive behind the blown out wreckage of a house. He was an asshole. His name matched his looks, his personality. Stringy black hair draped over his face, almost mocking her own hair style, with a bushy goatee speckled with spit, blood and remnants of food from that morning. Grease definitely was a dirty fucker; he hit on every woman in their troupe and was as smart as a herd of Brahmin, but when it came to explosives, she had to admit that he was their specialist. While her grenades would land too far from their mark or only send a smattering of shrapnel to her target, he could toss a frag and it would explode on impact with their chest, or tangle itself under their feet and literally blow their pants off and send those limbs flying sky high. He had been the one disarming the mines for the troupe to get deeper into the neighborhood, and the explosion from the start of the firefight had left its burnt impression on his metal shin guards.

"Fuckin' pick up a scope and _cap_ the bastard! _Forget _about Smudge, she's probably dead!" Bleeder's voice pretty much went unheard. She watched as the girl scrambled behind a burnt-out tree trunk and reloaded her rifle, cursing as another explosion broke up the confused shouting and bullet storm. Bleeder often tried to maker herself the leader of the team, claiming to have the eyes of a hawk, but never managed to overthrow the captain. Her hair was thick in an unnatural sense, painted red with acrylic paint, her eyebrows and lashes suffering under the same strange treatment. She always said that blood looked too ugly as it coagulated, and it stained brown in hair. How she knew that, she never asked, only guessed.

Aside from her unfulfilled superiority complex, Bleeder was an incredible marksman for being a child of the wastes. She was skilled with all types of rifles; assault, Chinese, hunting, and even laser in some cases, but she was partial to sniper rifles. Of course, she had been on long distance guard duty, but when a sniper bullet had hit the mine in front of their group, she had lost her scope to the now dangerous street in the chaos.

Her thoughts were interrupted as the bullet holes in her stomach reminded her she was slowly dying. With gritted teeth, she felt along the pouches of her hand made brahmin leather bag, looking for some sort of thing that could stem the blood flow or at least dull the pain. Three pouches yielded nothing but ammo and junk, yet the fourth opened to the almost delicious feel of a hypo of Med-X. Her fingers deftly whipped out the syringe, uncapped its protective case, and stuck it in the flesh of her stomach, the pain of the wounds and needlepoint washing away as she injected herself with the painkiller.

"Where's Lockjaw?" Grease took a risky lunge to Bleeder's position. She frowned upon hearing him; she had almost forgotten about Lockjaw. As she watched the two yell at each other, ducking low as a few shots from the mystery sniper rifle grazed all around them and the tree trunk, she shifted her weight so the blood wouldn't spill out, and threw the Med-X out of the open door.

"What the _fuck_ are you telling me; Locky's gone too?" Bleeder and Lockjaw had a thing together. The only other name for it was carnal, superficial attraction. He was a new addition to the team; they had only recruited him a few days beforehand. Their brand new heavy weapons specialist, he was a massive man and could carry both a full tank of flamer fuel and ammo for a mini gun on his back. The whole team was suspicious that he had not only dabbled in Buffout, but probably was chock full of mutations from radiation. His skin, when not caked with grime, had an offsetting hue of green. They also suspected he either had Super Mutant in him (a simple drunken joke that ended up sticking with them), or was definitely in mid-turning to be one. Bleeder never left the man alone, and he never denied her, but never reciprocated either. He had lust, sure, but his feelings didn't go much deeper than that.

Another explosion and staccato hail of gunfire laced the war zone, making the two out by the tree jump and crouch to the ground. An inhuman yelp erupted just outside the door, and she restrained herself from whipping out her pistol as a severely wounded man crawled over the door jamb and into the relatively calm darkness of the house.

"Fuckin'... is that you, Smudge?"

"Rudy?" He sounded weak, and she leaned to get a closer look at him as he pulled himself in. His legs were scorched black, and the smell coming off of them was a sickening, burning sweet. "Holy_ shit_, Rudy, get over here!"

She couldn't see any expression or indication of pain. His face, nay, his whole head was covered with a crudely stitched burlap mask, a pair of goggles sewn in and tufts of mole rat hair decorating the top and sides. "Yeah yeah... I'm comin'." He pulled his weakened body next to hers and she immediately surveyed the damage. "Got my fuckin' pants blown off, huh?" His masked voice was uncharacteristically sober, spiced with a chilling acceptance for his destroyed legs.

Rudy was their brawler. As she searched through his pack, looking past his impressive collection of brass and spiked knuckles, knives, and spare parts for the power fist on his arm, she sighed. If Dermal, the group medic, didn't pop her fucking face in soon, they'd be one less member. And a surprisingly skilled one, at that. Though melee fighting was usually a death wish, with their team working at full capacity, he was a swift and merciless killer. And he had the trophies to prove it: mummified victims' hands decorated his waist from past scuffles with wasteland schmucks.

Granted, the guy was usually high on a mixture of Jet and a little bit of Psycho, but he made infiltration and balls-to-the-wall beat downs look like an art form. On chems, he was a jittery paranoid and in combat he was like a hyena; laughing and crying at the same time, jumping and twitching around like a madman, and scaring the fuck out of their enemies. Yet when he was sober, which was whenever they weren't doing a planned raid or simply relocating and enjoying down time, he was one of her closest companions. The both of them agreed to never use the word "friend". It was too personal, too attaching, too corrupt. But still, they loved each other like disposable siblings; fun to pal around with and spend time together, but could be a necessary loss that they readily accepted.

"How do they look, _Smudgy-poo_?"

His comment in such dire times made her laugh. She felt a familiar warm, iron-tasting liquid trickled down her chin from the corner of her mouth, "you look like shit, Rudy. Lucky for your burnt ass, you've got one stimpak and a few bottles of water left."

"_Fucking_ goody goody, I can have a refreshing drink as my legs shrivel off."

"Oh can it, ass, which leg do you wanna keep?" She uncapped the stimpak and shook the literal life-saver in his face. Now, if Dermal didn't come, at least he'd have one leg still functional. The idea of a permanently crippled, possibly amputee Rudy left a depressing sour taste in her mouth, though. She wondered if he'd even stick with the team after this intense injury. Hopefully they were more closely-knit than other pockets of their kind, and if anything, he's be left with a pack mule job or at least be Dermal's aide behind the lines.

"Fuuuck... let's say my right. Is it hot in here? I'm fucking burning up." He ripped off the mask, revealing his sweaty blond hair and pained green eyes. If he wasn't near death, he would have looked adorable. That was a trait she definitely liked. He was a cute motherfucker. Again, it could only be limited to a brother-ish cuteness, but it was something.

She unceremoniously stuck the needle in his knee and pumped the medicine into his system, handing him an uncapped bottle of water that he drank immediately to gain back the lost fluids from his burns. They watched in pseudo-silence as the blackened skin began to curl and peel off, revealing fresh pink skin underneath. His other leg began to peel as well, but not enough to warrant recovery. Rudy snatched up the rest of the water and chugged it down, pulling himself up to sit next to her, and carefully moving around his reborn leg.

"Do you know where Lockjaw, Dermal and Victor are?" She asked, and she turned her attention back to Bleeder and Grease, who had finally noticed the two of them in the house and sprinted to the doorway.

"Yeah, they're in the house next door." Rudy waved at their comrades who barreled in, dropping their tired frames to the floor across from them. "Victor had sent me out to check if all of you were still alive and if we could still make it out of here. Seems so, all of the mines we cleared away lead a straight path back to the wastes. Right, Grease?"

"_Fucking_ right, and we would be up by that playground by now and filling that faggot sniper with _lead_ if I had gotten to the rest of the mines in time." Grease sighed and ran his leather gloved hand over his forehead, wiping off sweat and blood. The two had been lucky; sure, they were cut up some due to the explosions, but they could still carry their asses out the door if they wanted. She and Rudy couldn't.

"Well thank fuck that Lockjaw's safe," Bleeder mumbled, and all three of them stared at her.

"Thank _fuck_?"

"Oh, shut the fuck up, Smudge."

By the time the sun was on the other side of the sky, their whole troupe had managed to converge in the house, Dermal immediately working on Rudy's leg, her bleached white hair tied back with rubber bands. Bleeder sat in Lockjaw's lap, nudging her face against his thick beard, and Victor took to wrapping her up with scraps of cloth and leather. The firefight had stopped, and they were all to sneak out of the house and make a run for the wastes.

Except her.

"But, but Victor, just 'cause I have a couple bullets in my stomach doesn't mean I can't get out with you guys!"

He sighed in response, running a hand through his green and black hair that had been styled into a mohawk before sweat and adrenaline had turned it flat and soft. Victor was their captain, their leader. He was the only one out of all of them, perhaps even herself, that could still act like a normal functioning human being. A weakness most of their type thought, but it was actually fucking smart and a huge advantage. The only drug he was guilty of taking was Psycho, and even then, he was like Rudy in his handling of it. Only for raids and hunts. Save for those late nights when he just needed a flaming high and the rest of them were asleep. Or so he thought, of course.

"I don't want to leave you, Smudge. I really don't. You're our grade A gunslinger, that's for damn sure, and you can pistol whip like a fucking demon." It was a weird way to say a eulogy, but she appreciated it with a little spite. And it was true. Her hands were capable of firing off a perfect shot, and she was quite skilled at fixing guns and then using them to bludgeon a ghoul or a dog, whatever the case may be. "But we don't have any stimpaks for you. Dermal's injured too; her shoulder got grazed in the crossfire." Fucking grazed? The bandage on her shoulder wasn't any dirtier than it had been before it dressed her.

"So that's it then? I'm out? You're just going to _leave_ me here?"

Victor immediately shook his head no. "Smudge, you will always be a member of our team. But we need to go. If we find another group out here, we'll send them to come and help you, or something." He stood up, done wrapping her stomach, and sighed again. "But we need to get to Evergreen. I need to get my men out of here, and we _can't_ bring you with. You might start bleeding again, or worse, end up getting us all jumped for having an injured party member with us." She watched Rudy stand up with Dermal's help. Her last stimpak had gone to him, and his left leg was stiff but functioning again. The other group members stood as well.

"You... you fucking _pricks_..."

"Smudge, you'll be fine. These houses are completely untouched, whoever is out here, they don't ever go inside. You can heal up fine in here and then get your ass to Evergreen. Dermal, give her some of our provisions and some extra Med-X." Victor put his hand on the door and waited as the disgruntled medic dumped a good amount of Salisbury steak, snack cakes, and syringes into her bloody lap. When she was done, he turned the handle, everyone primed for the rush to safety. "We'll see you around, Smudge." Victor, though now a complete asshole that would one day get a bullet lodged in his skull for leaving her, looked genuinely upset. Bleeder and Grease gave her some sort of sympathetic nod, yet Lockjaw remained silent. Dermal mumbled a goodbye and all that was left was Rudy at the doorstep, staring down at her.

"Smudge, I-"

"... Just fucking _go_, Rudy..."

He hesitated as he turned back around, but of course, he sprinted out with the rest of them, leaving her alone, covered in blood and already wanting to get up and bust a fucking cap in their heads. The door slammed shut and she listened as their boots pounded on the street until she couldn't hear them anymore. But of course, she couldn't just leave. She was shut in the house, her lap crammed with useless shit, and couldn't move, lest her bullet wounds remind her that she was incapable of moving two feet without collapsing back to the floor. She was alone.

She would be stuck in that house for weeks, she decided. An hour earlier, she had heard slow, yet cautious footsteps at the door, and she expected the mystery assailant would open the door and try to kill her. She had been prepared, though, her pistol had been loaded and waiting, and she even screamed at the person on the other side of the door just try to open it, yet some silent moments later she heard a click and a muffled chuckle. The sniper had locked her in. He had probably laced the street with mines again, too. Even if she had managed to heal up enough to make it to Evergreen, where justice for being left in the dust awaited, she could step on a mine right on the doorstep and leave little Smudge giblets for birds to feed on. She was essentially locked in the house until she would die. _What_ a fucking bitter end.

But wait.

None of the asses had scavenged the house. The cowards had been too ready to leave; for all Smudge knew, something in the fucking home could save her, or ease her pain. Now she was faced with a dilemma. Either stay put, save extensive pain and bleeding, yet stay rooted to the floor and probably continue to slowly die, or try to scour this shithole of a house she was condemned to and hope to find at least another extra hypo of Med-X if not a stimpak. Of course, the former offered the pull pain to last until she died, which to some wastelander, would sound like heaven. But she wasn't a weak-as-shit wasteland shmuck. She was a self-entitled human radroach, with a knack for surviving in some obscure and brave way, or of course, dying valiantly in the effort. The latter sounded much more exciting anyways, and it could speed up her possible death, too. If she survived and wouldn't explode as soon as she stepped out the door, she'd write a book about her betrayal, or something like that. Whatever the settlers and homebodies did in the cities when they had some story to cry about.

Her legs struggled to push her up, her fatal wound forcing her whole body to tremble. Blood began to seep onto her wrap, and she groaned with the effort it took to simply stand. Her hand pressed to her stomach, suppressing the bleeding, as she stumbled across the filthy living room littered with debris, trash, and just plain old rot and dust. The soft glow of the setting sun shone in through the boarded up and grime-encrusted windows, illuminating specks and particles of dust that she regarded with distaste, knowing they were flowing into her lungs every time she took a shaky step. The decrepit and ancient house creaked with weakness as she threw herself upon the bathroom door behind the stairs, punching it open and worrying more about her imminent death than the blood that now arose on her knuckles.

Laid out on the broken sink across from her, something metal, something hope-inspiring, something that could either save her or make her want to shoot herself, gleamed in the dim light.

Smudge cursed as she heard the house shake and turned as fast as she could to look out of the bathroom. The door had slammed open, and the frightening barks of a dog reverberated through the shadows. Her heart beat, though slow, had quickened slightly, and she lifted her pistol, ready to kill whoever it was that got in the house. If it was that damned sniper, god, she'd just-

"Hello? Anyone here? Oh shut it, Petie..." A girl's voice? A young one, too. Maybe even around her own age. What the fuck was she doing out here?

"Who the _fuck_ are you?" She sidled out from the protection of the bathroom, but felt her legs give way and she tumbled to the floor. The girl in front of her gasped, and Smudge watched as the dog accompanying her growled. That dog looked really familiar. Too familiar. In a flash, the dog yowled and dashed at her, and she screamed, covering her face, aiming at the dog with her pistol hand. That dog, she knew it. She knew it enough that it was going to kill her, right then and there. Rip her guts out and give the prizes to its owner. It was over. It was fucking over. No justice to dish out to her traitorous band mates. Just death.

"Petie!... Goddamn- heel, boy! Heel!" The girl sounded like she was struggling. Her hand moved from her face to see what was going on, and why the dog wasn't at her throat. She had actually stopped the dog, pulling back on his collar and dragging him away from her. Why hadn't she let him kill her? It was obvious who was going to win; the girl had a damned .32 strapped to her back and seemed in perfect health. "I, I'm sorry for that." The girl forced the dog to sit, and she watched, amazed, as he obeyed and she turned to face her.

"What the fuck are you doing, girl? Just kill me and get it over with," she growled, and the girl looked taken aback, before smiling some crazy smile. She was fucking high, she bet.

"You're already pretty dead to begin with," she began, and she came up to her. She frowned and knelt down, reaching for her stomach. In response, she almost barked and smacked her hand away. The girl only laughed slightly, and turned to fiddle through a duffel bag she had hanging off her shoulder. When she saw her take out a stimpak, she lost all anger towards her. She, she was going to save her? "Hold still, now."

The stimpak hurt as its needle pushed into her skin, but she felt immediately rejuvenated as its contents washed over her stomach, feeling the bullets deep inside her tumble around before being expelled as her body rebuilt itself, "why are you doing this? I'm a fucking _raider_, haven't you seen one of us before?"

The girl smiled as she took the gauze off of her stomach to let the bullets fall to the floor, pink skin threading itself over the holes in her stomach, "yes, I have." She picked up the bullets and examined them as she spoke, "that's why I figure, if I revive one of you, the rest of you will stop taking potshots at me while I try to stay alive."

Smudge laughed at the audacity of the girl's reasoning. It would never happen that way. "It won't ever happen that way, scrub." She sat up slowly, her body still stiff and slightly unresponsive. "But, I'll tell you what. You're something special, saving someone like me. I, I don't know what to say. My own teammates left me for _dead_ here..."

The girl scrunched her nose in disgust. "_Barbarians,_"

"Yeah, yeah, barbarians alright. But thanks for this, really." She sighed and looked to the dog. It was still on edge, but it was wagging its tail. "So, uh, as soon as I get my strength, I'll go ahead and leave. Don't wanna make you uneasy or some shit, having a raider bitch around you."

"What are you talking about?" The girl stood up, smiling. "Your friends left you here for dead. If you can even call them friends. You're going to be all by yourself out there? I won't allow it."

"Look, girl, you don't _want_ someone like me around, really."

The girl laughed and sighed, still smiling. "Well, you haven't tried to back stab me, and we already seem to get along well. If anything, how about you stick around with me and Petie until you're ready to go wherever you're going? I could always use a hand out here; the wastes suck when your team consists of yourself and your dog."

Smudge actually chuckled. This girl, woo, was she something. Willing to have a raider tailing her around? Completely and utterly insane. But she had respect for the girl. She did save her life, after all. Maybe, maybe she would stick with her. In fact, when she thought for a moment about it, maybe this girl really could help her. Thinking about her troupe made her head hurt. And thinking about what they would do to the poor girl if she had offered them help sickened her, too. Maybe not yet, but after the events that went on today... maybe she'd reconsider her current life's path of killing, looting, and betraying. Only maybe.

"You've got yourself a deal, girlie." Smudge smiled and stood up, and the girl returned the gesture.

"For starters, my name is Alma." She turned and pointed back to the dog. His fur was flat and calm, not bristled like it had been only moments before. "His name is Petie." She looked back to Smudge, grinning, "And I'm sure your name is not 'Raider Bitch'."

Smudge smirked and shook her head no. "No, it's not that. My nickname amongst those _bastards_ that left me here was Smudge." When she thought of her real name, she smiled slightly, a genuine smile. She hadn't used her real name in years. Maybe she would feel more... more human with it. "But, I don't want to go by that anymore. At least not with you."

Alma turned to Petie, and Smudge followed, "then what should I call you then?"

As the girl pet the dog's head and calmed it down even more, Smudge realized that she would be spending the next few days, if not weeks, with this girl. She wasn't used to her kindness, her willingness to make a friend out of an enemy. That's what made the next days and nights more enticing. It would be something completely new. Something exciting. And she could always pull the plug, so to speak, if this new-found partnership wouldn't work.

"Call me Elizabeth."


	22. All Alone

**AN: **You know, I was hoping if all of you had noticed the slight changes I made to the way Charon thought of Alma. Not what he openly thought, but how his POV describes her differently than it used to. Maybe it's not that big of a change, I'm not sure. If you got the guts to point it out, you get a cookie. If you're right, you get two cookies.

Anyways, I hope all of you like how I give backgrounds to how raiders could be and such. I like making them seem real, I can't stand having raiders simply be murderous lunatics, they need to have some sort of structure or some sort of personality, don't they? Oh, and I 've been slowly going through each chapter and fixing up things, and adding some small paragraphs to make the story flow better. If you care to check, go ahead, but it's a lot of reading before you reach anything new I added in. Remember to review, my readers! Thanks goes to everyone who has been kind enough to do so!

AND HOLY SHIT MOTHERFUCKING POKEMON HEART GOLD RELEASING TOMORROW, I AM SO GODDAMNED EXCITED.

* * *

**|Chapter 21 - All Alone|**

"After we saved Big Town, she told me she was almost ready to leave."

Charon sat in half-attentive silence, mulling over his employer's past. Befriended a raider, huh? As much as he was now pissed that his smoothskin had actually befriended raider scum, he found himself grudgingly thankful that she hadn't melded into being one. At least she had a small amount of intelligence.

"Elizabeth taught me a lot about survival, mostly. She lectured me every night, telling me how to indicate if animals were nearby or if I was wandering into raider territory. Did you know that all of the raiders in the Capital Wasteland apparently use the same graffiti markers? She said they may be in small pockets around the wastes, but they're _really _a huge network with one focal point, and the graffiti marks safe zones for them. I didn't even know raiders could be so... _organized_, you know?" No, he did not know. And he did not care. As far as he was concerned, raiders were simply packs of bloatflies always trying to bite off more than they could chew. And he internally laughed at the idea of them being organized; they were so chem-addled, the only possible organization they could have was simply having some sort of chem trade route or something ridiculous and petty like that.

"She also told me the basics of surprise attacking and sneaking past hostiles I have no chance of surviving against. Oh, and how to keep Petie from becoming a sitting duck for raiders and super mutants. She often said the best raider guard dog is one that barks before it bites and doesn't run from its master, and she said that the same principles needed to apply to Petie. If I wanted to keep him alive, that is." The mentioning of the dog distracted his annoyance. And the fact that they were void of a dog made him wonder if the mutt had been killed. He never really liked dogs to begin with. Loud, obnoxious bags of fur and slobber.

"The Big Town incident had been her best lesson. Through the whole time we were there and in Germantown, she said the best way to 'toughen my Vaultie ass up' was to go on a super mutant hunting spree, which is pretty much what we did. And after getting the antennae relay for Three Dog, I'd have to agree. I stuck to the shadows more than I shot, but at least I survived." He came to a conclusion that even though she now sounded very capable of coming out of a firefight unscathed, she still wasn't an expert like him and her raider buddy. But, he couldn't ignore the fact that she could keep herself alive. and the more he thought about it, the more he wondered why she had decided to not only keep that crucial information to herself, but masked her limited experience, too. He remembered her apparent shock at Ahzrukhal's death. How she stumbled and struggled in the fight against the raiders and the super mutant at Friendship Heights. Her irrational fear of radscorpions. Yet now, she could survive throwing herself into super mutant-infested hell holes and go through a town laced with mines without a scratch? Who... who the fuck _was_ his employer? Did he even know? Could he even describe her without doubting himself? Right now, could he even believe what she was saying? What if this was all an elaborate lie? What if she was still hiding something?

"And ever since we had met in the minefield house, she hated any and all raiders vehemently. Yet she had never let that cloud her decisions. Until, it seems, when we had raided the Super Duper Mart." She turned her head to look out at the Potomac, the moonlight now hitting her whole body. It made her look... delicate. As if she hadn't killed an impressive amount of super mutants and raiders, as if she had never touched a gun in her life. As if she wasn't tainted. "She told me... she told me that if I still wanted to be her friend, or at least still think she could be a good person, I shouldn't ever look in that bathroom. I had always feared _what_ it was that she would hide and lock away from me, I knew she had taken the bodies back there, and now I understand why she said that."

At this point, he could care less about her gripes with the raider. His mind wouldn't let go of the fact that she had lied to him, that she could have been just as competent in fighting as he was. She had put up a goddamn charade. It was so fucking _childish_.

"It's no wonder that she wanted to leave after that. I had suggested she bring Petie with her, but she didn't want to. Said something about knowing his former owner and wanting me to have him instead. But I convinced her to take him." Charon kept himself from shaking his head in spiteful amusement. At least his questions about the fucking _dog_ had been answered. "So, she left. Told me she was heading northeast for provisions, and then mentioned some place called Evergreen Mills." A small smile formed on her lips. "Elizabeth promised me, if not herself, at least Petie would be safe, and she'd find a way to return him to me. Though how she'll manage _that_, I haven't a clue. She distrusts large settlements like Megaton, and it's not like Stockholm would see her in his cross-hairs and be fine with her just wal-"

"Miss," he was glad that conversation was interrupt-able. She looked back to him, and he cleared his throat. "What time is it?" Her face blanked as if she had forgotten there was such thing as time, then smiled slightly, glancing down at her Pip-Boy.

"It's ten." She had been talking non-stop for an hour.

"I suggest we head to bed, or something. Perhaps you could finish this tomorrow?"

Her smile changed to a frown of disappointment. "Oh... yeah, I guess so..." Her eyes looked off into the distance, before she realized what she was doing and she looked down at the floor silently, either embarrassed or just putting up an act of depression. And as annoyed and fucking angry with her as he was, he felt that pain in his chest again. He didn't know why, but something about that pain made him want to, no, _need_ to say something to make her stop sulking.

"... Miss, it's only because Rivet City is still a good ways away. If we sleep now, we can leave early and arrive there sooner."

Of course, as soon as he brought up Rivet City, she immediately brightened. He watched her stand and stretch, her figure now black as it blocked the moonlight streaming into the window and casted a shadow over him. The white light created a glowing aura around her form. Almost divine, he would have thought. That is, if he was still ignorant of her past, her lies. Ignoring that he just considered using the word "divine" as an adjective for his smoothskin, he put all of his thought on who his employer was. Or, to be more accurate, _figuring out_ who she was.

She turned to face him again, and made a mock grimace in his direction while she hefted up her rifle and her bag, Charon standing to pull up his bag as well. "That bed looks terrible, so I think Dukov will be fine if we use his couches we saw in the lobby."

Indeed, Dukov, or at least his whores, had been kind enough to leave some threadbare sheets on the sofas as the two of them reentered the lobby. He hated couches. An admittedly strange thing to hate, but he just did not like them. And the fact most couches in the wastes were filled with dirt and centuries old, unreliable springs was a good factor to consider. Beds ranged in the same hatred spectrum. He preferred mattresses and bedrolls only, and would even take a soft spot on the floor or a bench to the risk of getting impaled in the back.

He followed her down the stairs to the cream colored sofa in the middle of the room, glowing slightly orange due to the giant gold glass chandelier on the second floor ceiling. As his employer busied herself doing whatever ritual she did before bed, he stared up at the oddly-shaped light fixture, hoping it would take his mind off of his smoothskin's past. Until he realized that it wasn't an abstract art piece he was staring at, and instead was a massive wire-frame of a man and a woman in the middle of fucking each other. Charon's teeth bared slightly in disgust, and he turned his attention to a pair of mounted Brahmin heads that decorated the staircase, a little party hat on one and glasses on the other with a plastic rose in its mouth. He really didn't want to stay for the night in a sleaze factory. Really.

"Charon." Reluctantly, he turned to face his employer, who was sitting on the sofa in just her vault suit, the various pieces of armor and belting at a pile on the floor. "You can do whatever you want, I won't command you to sleep on these couches. The springs in them are already bothering the _hell_ out of me."

"Please specify what I can and can not do, Miss. That order was too general." Sometimes, orders were easy to interpret, such as being allowed to talk and converse whenever he wanted. Sometimes, they were so vague, that he couldn't process them right, such as being told to 'do whatever he wanted.' Plus, he wouldn't know what he would want to do if not given a specific thing to think about. He would be stuck standing in the middle of the room debating what he would want to do and would not want to do for hours. Perhaps even long enough to fall asleep standing up, or to find that his employer had already gotten seven hours of sleep.

His smoothskin just stared at him. Not out of annoyance, though. He could see she was thinking, yet she looked a little disturbed or upset by his words, her brows raised in a surprised arch. "Ah, okay, sorry about that. Let's see..." She crooked her lips into a thoughtful frown. "You may choose where you sleep in the lobby tonight. If you would rather not sleep, you can do whatever you please with your shotgun, the things in our bags, whichever sounds good enough to occupy your time. If you do stay awake, it would be great if you checked up on the mirelurks and made sure_ they_ don't wake up before _we_ do." She took a small breath to replenish her lungs, "how does that sound? Good enough for you?"

"Yes, Miss." Now he had things to think about, to do if he decided to stay awake. Maybe distract him from his anger towards her, take his mind off of everything she had told him. Yes. He was looking forward to the rest of the night. The peace and quiet, not having to deal with her being awake and pestering him.

As she bent over and unbuckled her boots, he heard her voice rise up from the sheet of dark brown hair that covered her face, "Charon, before I go to sleep..." With a flick of her head, her hair flipped to rest and fall over one side of her neck as she pulled off her boots and in turn took off surprisingly pristine white ankle socks. "Why do you call me Miss? As in, instead of Mistress?" He opened his mouth to respond, but she interrupted him hastily, "not that I _like_ that word or anything. Personally, I think it's for older women. I'm just curious, is all."

He didn't like the word "mistress". Of course, he hadn't really thought of it until then and there, since calling her Miss was what he had naturally done since they began their time together, but it was true that he did not like the word in the least. "Mistress" was on par with "master". And those two words, two titles, weren't for hired mercenaries like himself. They were for slaves, men and women victim to their own kind and treated as nothing more than dogs. Charon wasn't a slave. No, he was _not_ a slave. The times his former employers had ordered him to call them such words, such names, those were simply orders. Requests. And of course, as their employee, he had been obliged to follow them. He was not a slave.

"You never instructed me to call you anything, so I decided to call you Miss. And I do agree, 'mistress' would not fit you; you are one of my youngest employers, so Miss is the best title for you. Unless you think otherwise?"

His employer shook her head pointedly in response, "oh no, no no. If you want to call me Miss, by all means, go ahead." Her face turned down to look at her Pip-Boy, and he watched her fiddle with the contraption until it simply clicked and unlocked itself. She put the contraption in her duffel bag along with the fingerless glove she wore with it and zipped it up carefully before sliding the bag over to him. He bent down and picked it up by its straps and set it next to his own bag, which sat at the foot of the staircase. "And truthfully, I like it that you call me that," she said softly, before laying down on the couch and pulling the sheets up to her waist, "anyways, goodnight, Charon. Talk to you in the morning."

"Goodnight, Miss."

Charon didn't leave where he was standing. He crossed his arms and stood straight and still, watching his employer as she slowly drifted off to sleep. He didn't want to go off on his own until she was sound asleep and he knew her dark eyes wouldn't follow him around the lobby. Even when he was sure she was asleep, he stayed where he was for a good ten minutes to make sure she was definitely out for the night.

It was around ten thirty when he felt it was time to move. He sighed and popped the vertebrae in his neck; a habit he took to doing whenever she wasn't around or was sleeping, because God forbid if she hear him and complain about it for an hour. His eyes looked down at their travel bags, and he noticed the differences between the two.

His was a large, cylindrical bag with two side pockets and one large one, made out of black, tanned bear hide, better known as yao guai skin. Two thick leather belts were stitched into the hide and encircled it, the buckles ending at the top along the seam of the zipper, for extra security in case the zipper wasn't reliable enough to hold. The strap on it was thick and patched down on either side of the bag as much as possible, so it wouldn't rip off in the unlikely event that it was a little too heavy. He had been instructed to hunt down the bear himself and get the materials for it, and one of his previous employers had it sewn together. The bag hadn't originally belonged to Charon either, even though he had done all the work to have it come into being; he had taken it from that particular employer after they had died from a bullet to the eye, before the winner of that battle claimed his contract for their own. The bag was well used, battered and slightly dirty, some dried blood splattered on its side. It both smelled of the wastes, which was a dry, dusty smell, and of the D.C. ruins, a more metallic, gun powder smell.

The side pockets were filled with ammo, and the main pocket held spare parts for his shotgun, his mole rat hair brush for his armor, some boot polish and other things mainly for keeping his gun intact. His bag also carried anything his smoothskin decided to give to him, mostly bandages and medical supplies, the couple frag grenades he had taken from Hamilton's, and even a relatively well-conditioned combat knife he had fished from the corpses in the Super Duper Mart. It had really been luck that he had found it glinting in the dim light, only slightly shoved through the forehead of a carcass. It had seemed like her raider friend hadn't done as much looting as she had simply done psychopathic butchering.

His smoothskin's bag, on the other hand, was remarkably pristine, as if it was fresh out of the factory. Then again, large dark blue 101's were painted on either side of the metallic white and light blue bag. There were three different straps: a pair of short black ones with a velcro handle, for light carrying, and a longer black one with a cushioned shoulder pad, for heavy carrying. The bag had five pockets in all. Two on each end, and a large one in the middle with a square flip top. The bag itself was rectangular on the bottom, stiff with black plastic lining, not meant for being a backpack.

Charon turned to look at his employer, apprehensive that she would wake up and bark at him for reaching for her bag. He knew he had been given the privilege of looking through it, it was only habit that he rechecked that he was in the clear for following through with orders. Making sure she was asleep, he turned to the bag and unzipped the closest, smallest pocket near him, kneeling down on the tile floor. Inside was a small amount of bottle caps, threaded through with a piece of yarn to make a small necklace. She had around two hundred and thirty three, all divided into various denominations. Hardly anything. He wondered if they had enough to even pay for a room in Rivet City. He knew a "hotel" was there, but as he had never been in the city himself, he didn't know their prices or their policies on ghouls.

The pocket next to that, when he opened it, was slightly packed with dried noodles and chips. He suddenly realized that he had never seen her eat since that morning in Friendship Heights. But he ruled out his illogical thinking, remembering that he often hardly paid attention to her when they were taking breaks. For all he knew, she probably snacked on the noodles every time he wasn't looking. Though she never seemed hungry. Not once had she said outright that she was hungry or wanted to stop to eat. Then again, she didn't like wasteland food to begin with, so she probably wasn't too eager to eat anyways because of that.

On the other side of the bag, the smaller pocket was the medicine one. He knew that. After that excursion into Hamilton's Hideaway, he knew what was in that pocket, so he wouldn't go rooting around in it. The pocket next to that one was stuffed with .32 ammo; even though she had delighted over the assault rifle they had found in that weapons store, she had left all of the weapons where they were, saying until her current gun broke, she didn't see a need to lug around an extra. He had tried to explain to her the importance of having a backup weapon as they had exited Hamilton's, but she was firm on the matter. Stupidly enough.

The main pocket was what he wanted to look through the most. She kept all sorts of things in there, he knew, and he wasn't surprised to open it up and see her Pip-Boy nestled on top of her neatly folded teddy. He pulled them out to reveal a mass of junk; cherry bombs, pencils, that one fission battery from Friendship Heights, the combat knife, and a D.C. Journal of Internal Medicine. Typical. The girl seemed big on medicine and anatomy, and beneath all of that, he felt pencils and erasers and what he guessed was a small tin sharpener. His fingers closed on her sketchbook that rested at the bottom of the bag, and he pulled it out, flipping it open.

About a dozen sketches of legs, arms, torsos, and eyes greeted him. Notes were scribbled on every inch of the papers, and smudges and cross outs dotted the pages. The drawings were dated; from 2270 to the most recent, which was 2277. In the beginning, the drawings were cartoony and of animals he had never seen before, such as a brahmin without a second head and colored black and white, a plethora of black, brown, and white dogs, some sort of animal with slitted pupils, pointed ears and a curling tail. A taller, thinner brahmin with a long snout and mane, a tiny mirelurk with spider-like legs and eyes on stalks. Little flying bugs with heart-shaped wings and underwater animals with fins and gills. They were alien to him. He hadn't been born before the war, like Carol had, and he never took the time to look through books or magazines that had survived the war, so he didn't know what had lived on the parched, hard soil before the bombs had fallen. Back when there used to be green grass and trees. He wondered if the animals she had drawn ever existed before, they seemed so strange compared to the ones he knew of now.

Charon wondered if the little girl that had drawn them still existed. If she was still as innocent as she had played to be. He felt that anger towards her begin to evaporate. It wasn't her fault that she hid so much from him, that she was so hesitant to bring it up. Yet, he wondered if that girl disappeared when she saw the wastes. When she killed for the first time.

When her father left her all alone.


	23. What Time Is It?

**AN: **Ack, okay, so my mind was on a million things at once when I was writing this, so sorry it's short and maybe a tad choppy. It's hard to write when you have _FUCKING POKEMON HEART GOLD_ on the brain. And the subtle hints, if you couldn't guess them now, you'll definitely see them later in this chapter if you're willing to look. Remember to review!

* * *

**|Chapter 22 - What Time Is It?|**

The night, as he had expected, was uneventful. Charon had actually found himself toying with his smoothskin's Pip-Boy for a good while, trying to figure out how the damn thing worked since his shotgun was as polished as it could be without peeling off the paint and he needed something to do. It had seemed, though, that when it was off of her arm, the screen wouldn't light up past the dim glow that it usually emitted during the day. And no matter how hard he pressed the buttons (without breaking them of course), whichever way he rotated the dials, and whichever direction he flicked the switches, the mini computer would not operate. All that displayed on the dull green screen was an image of the Vault Boy wagging his finger with his characteristic cheeky grin, text flashing underneath saying:

_This lovely Pip-Boy is the property of Alma Adler!_  
_Please do not tamper with this device unless you are the owner or a qualified technician!_

Taking heed of the contraption's warning, he had placed it back on her folded teddy and put it back in her bag, all of the items he had shuffled around inside back in their places. Including the sketchbook. He didn't want to bother trying to read the little notes she left on the pages; as much as he wanted to know more about her, just because she said he could occupy himself with hers and his own things did not mean he could do more than take a few glances at her possessions. And when he had happened upon the most recent sketch, the one where his own face stared back at him, he had lost the motivation to even look through the rest of the book or even her bag.

To see his own, admittedly zombie-like face committed to paper with such... how could he word it... such attention to detail, well, it made him have that annoying pain in his chest again. He didn't know why it happened, but something about the fact she had put such care into recreating his face, even though it wasn't anything handsome or worth drawing, made that pain resurface. It made him feel like she didn't draw it for Moira. It felt like it wasn't simply some sort of medical drawing for a book.

It felt like she had drawn it for _him_.

And that was why he had shoved the sketchbook back in the bag and eventually left her things alone altogether. He didn't want that confusing and annoying pain in his chest. Charon didn't want to think the things he did. Because they weren't _sane thoughts_. They were the thoughts of a ghoul up in the middle of the night left with only small, worthless things to mess with and a couple walks to the third floor to make sure the horde of mirelurks outside weren't discovering how to make grenades. He couldn't understand, maybe didn't even want to understand, why in such a relatively short time, the time he spent with his new employer had put so much weight on his mental state.

Maybe it was that irradiated wasteland air. Maybe Ahzrukhal had been right, or at least in theory; being with her was a lot different than his past employments. Was it refreshing, though? He, unfortunately, had to agree. But only in _theory_. Being employed to a female smoothskin was nothing new. Being employed to one that was still a teenager was something new. And the fact that she was from a perfectly functioning vault was also new. And that she didn't hate him, didn't call him a shuffler or a zombie, tried not to make her orders sound like commands, actually wanted to talk to him, listened to his advice, gave him more freedom than any of his past employers, trusted him enough, in hindsight, to tell him her faults, her secrets... that was new, too.

He decided he would go and check on the mirelurks. He needed to separate himself from her presence. Compose himself. Stop thinking and get back to existing. Get back to his niche, his low boil annoyance of her, of his employment, criticizing her actions, hating the things she did. He didn't know what it was that was pulling him out of that comfort zone. But as soon as he did, he'd do his damned best to stop it.

As Charon stood up, he offhandedly wondered what time it was. His smoothskin's Pip-Boy, of course, wouldn't tell the time of day if it wasn't on her arm, so using it was out of the question. And of course, there wasn't a working clock in the lobby. No windows, either. But thinking of it now, that was probably a good thing. Still, that left the third floor anyways, since it had windows. The last time he had gone up there, the moon had decided to drift behind a thick sheild of clouds and left the Potomac as black as tar. He turned from blankly staring at their bags and lugged himself up the stairs, hearing his boots stomp on them, feeling his legs and arms thank him for moving again. Even if he was awake, that damned friction from his armor dug into his joints and left them feeling irritated. He would rub them out when he reached the third floor.

A door slammed open, and Charon immediately jerked around, forgetting about the door that led upstairs. The lobby was dark. Or, its edges were. The giant chandelier lit up the center, but the rest of the lobby, on both floors, was dark. He squinted his eyes, scanning around the floors, trying to see past the light of the chandelier. He caught movement. Across the room from him, on the second floor. He could see a room with double doors, not much past that, but one of the doors was open and a tired figure walked from it, turning to walk to the stairs.

He stayed where he was, his hand left forgotten on the door handle. He couldn't tell who it was at first, but as they came closer to the stairs, to the light, he saw a familiar pair of silk maroon pants walking. It was Dukov. The russian could hardly keep himself upright, and Charon sneered when he caught sight of an empty bottle of beer in his hand. His hand came up to rub at his wet eyes, and he stared in Charon's direction for only a moment, before turning and almost falling down the stairs. Though the man was piss drunk and definitely did not seem like a threat, he felt a pull to watch over him anyways. Make sure the drunk didn't do something he'd end up regretting.

Charon watched as Dukov continued to stumble and trip his way down the stairs, and immediately fell over their travel bags. He smiled spitefully in his head as the man crawled to his feet and continued to somehow make his way half way through the lobby. That was when it became concerning. The russian began moving to his right, straight towards his employer. He felt the tingling sensation of hair standing on end as he prepped himself to confront the man, his teeth bared slightly. He didn't know Dukov personally, but he could tell what he was capable of thinking, of doing. And that made him push away from the railing to tackle the man to the fucking ground. That is, until he saw him stop in his tracks, take an empty swig of his beer bottle, then turned and wandered off towards the bathrooms. Charon took a deep breath to control himself and stood still, relieved that he hadn't had to beat the man's face in. But he wouldn't leave just yet, he would wait and watch for the drunk to return. He wanted to make sure he was just incredibly uncoordinated, instead of trying to mask his intentions. Just to make sure that tackling him would be his own fault and not the drunk's.

He admittedly did not have much patience for the man. Thinking of apprehending him made him think of his employer, and he had gotten up to leave the lobby for a reason. So when he saw Dukov, after five minutes of waiting, drunkenly carry his ass across the lobby again, Charon decided he had waited long enough, and he turned to get back to checking out the third floor.

The door to the emergency exit stairs was a welcome sight, and he shut it carefully behind him and he turned to face the gloomy stairwell. Even though the slowly rotting wooden door muffled it, he heard Dukov stumble and fall flat on his face, which in turn made him feel much more relieved that the russian was too drunk to even coordinate himself, let alone bother his employer.

His employer... As he began his ascent to the third floor, going at a pace he realized was unusually slow for wanting to put as much distance between himself and her as possible, he somehow let his mind drift to her again. Each step he took, each dusty concrete stair he stomped on, the more he thought of how vulnerable she was at that moment. The girl never slept with a gun by her side. In retrospect, she never _needed_ to, because he was always a maximum of three feet away from her all night and he _did_ sleep with his shotgun in his hands, and Megaton was completely safe, so he did have to let that slide somewhat. But even if she did, she would only have that hunting rifle to defend herself if she woke up in the middle of a crisis. Rifles were effective for long distance, outdoor fighting. Not a confrontation a yard away. She didn't even have a simple pistol holstered at her side, to quickly whip out and cap someone in the forehead, if needed be. And he didn't know if she was a light sleeper or not, since he had usually slept too.

Maybe it wasn't a good idea to leave her alone and not know how she slept, how sensitive she could be to noises or physical touch. Half way up the stairs, he almost faltered to go back down, but he made himself continue going up. She would be fine. They were in a relatively safe place, no windows, metal doors on one side of the lobby and the other side blocked by a bed, a pool table, and a massive horde of mirelurks. Dukov wouldn't bother with her, seeing as he had two women waiting on his hands and feet, whether they wanted to or not. She was in an open area where he could access her easily if she indeed had some sort of problem, and they both, he realized ironically, would be able to defend themselves if needed be.

The top step gave way to the door leading into the third floor hallway, and he sighed in relief that he had made it up the damn stairs without any incident. She would be perfectly fine. Absolutely, positively-

_"Charon!"_

Then again, he could have been wrong.

Charon felt an immediate adrenaline rush course through his system as he turned on his heel and vaulted himself down the stairs. His shotgun found itself nestled in his hands, the metal feeling hot to him, for some odd reason. Maybe because his whole body had flared up in anger and urgency and the blood pulsing through his arteries, his veins, seemed to boil. God-fucking-damnit. Leave his smoothskin alone for just a few moments, and something just had to go down. He was not in the mood for whatever the hell was going on; if anything ended up dead or at least horrifyingly injured, he'd blame it on an itchy trigger finger.

Another heart-pounding scream for his help met his ears as he jumped down the last flight, kicking the emergency exit door he had gone through not moments ago into the wall. The door actually flung off its hinges, and as he stoped to briefly look over the railing, he caught a sight that made his teeth threaten to grind themselves to dust in fury. His smoothskin was writhing under a maroon figure, her legs tangled in the sheets and her arms trying to swat away the man. She was fully awake but her body was struggling to wake up, and her strength wasn't nearly as good while she was on her back. The fucking drunk. He could hear him pleading for her to shut up, and as he ran down the stairs, he watch him lift a leg to begin to straddle her on the couch, which she managed to push away with a knee to his thigh. She was too scared, too focused on the man before her to notice Charon running up to them.

His hand grabbed the collar of Dukov's robe, and he jerked the drunk away, slinging him across the lobby and into the stairs. "Alma, are you okay? What did he do to you?"

She didn't smile when she saw him, heard his panicked and furious voice. But he could hear her appreciation as she spoke. "I, I don't know. I woke up to himcomplaining about you and trying to hold my arms down... He was swinging that bottle over my head as if he was trying to- to knock me out with it..." He turned to face the russian, feeling his smoothskin stumble to her feet behind him and keep close to his back. To hide from the bastard before him.

"Dukov," he began, his voice low and threatening, the gravel tone to it adding to the anger, "I won't tolerate you doing such things to my employer. You better get your drunk ass back upstairs and leave her the _fuck_ alone." He turned his head over his shoulder to talk to his smoothskin, keeping his eyes on the man who was now fuming and only stopped from moving by his shotgun aimed at him. "Miss, I suggest we leave now. It seems that we would be more safe _outside_ than in here with this _drunk_."

"No no no no no..." Dukov grumbled, waving his beer bottle at them both. "You two are going fucking _nowhere_. We... _You_ still have to kill those fucking mirelurks for us. This wouldn't have even happened if your girl didn't fucking give me those _signals_-"

"I gave you no such thing!" She yelled from behind him, and Dukov laughed, almost losing his balance in the process. "Just because I talked to you doesn't mean that I was sending off some damn signals!"

He laughed again, and dropped the bottle to the floor, smashing it. "I don't fucking _care_, girly. You walk into Dukov's pad, you play by _Dukov's rules_," he began to stagger towards them, and Charon felt her hands latch around his waist. He cocked his shotgun, but it didn't make the drunk falter in the slightest. "When you're in here, your sweet ass belongs to _me_, you got that?" Once more his inebriated laugh cut through the anger in the air.

"Dukov, back the_ fuck_ away if you still want to have a head." Every time he heard those words, the way the man described her, he felt his anger worsen. He hated what he was calling her. Those damned names, that fucking slang.

Yet, upon hearing Charon's warning, Dukov defiantly stepped up to him and pressed a finger into his chest. "No, _you _fucking listen to _me_." The drunk sneered up at him, and opened his mouth to spew some other bullshit that frankly, he didn't want to hear anymore.

When his fist connected with Dukov's chin, he felt a satisfying smirk grace his cracked lips.

The man fell down in a heap, and he felt his smoothskin let go of him and peer around him to look at him. "Miss, I suggest we leave now," he ventured, and she nodded, a disgusted look on her face as she turned to grab her things, armor and all, and stuffed it in her bag. She didn't want to stick around to get properly armored, and he couldn't blame her. He picked up his own bag and they took one last look at the russian, who was struggling to stand, before turning and heading for the metal doors that would lead outside. They mutually felt that it was better to brave any mirelurks than stay.

"Go ahead and leave!" Dukov's pained and furious voice followed them as he opened the door for her. "Don't ever expect us to welcome you back, you fucking _asshole_! And that goes for you _too_, you little cock-teasing bi-"

Charon pulled the door shut, and turned to face his employer, who had a sincere look of appreciation on her face. The soft light of the morning sun just managed to peer over the broken D.C. skyline and hit her from the torso up, highlighting her hair, her skin, her smile. They didn't say a word to each other as they turned down the stairs and started walking along the broken, centuries old road. He watched as his smoothskin reached in her bag and pulled out her Pip-Boy, fastening it to her arm. It flicked on immediately, and she messed with the dials and switches until a morning wake-up call from Three Dog blared from the radio. He smirked in his head, realizing that he had been awake all night. Unfortunately, he never got around to getting the girl before him out of his mind.

But at least he finally knew what time it was.


	24. Ghouls and Humans

**AN:** VERY short, but an update nonetheless. I'm sorry, all. Assassin's Creed, Assassin's Creed 2, Pokeymans, and Bioshock 2 all got in the way. At least I beat them all save for Pokeymans. Still gotta get my Weepinbell to 50 before I fight the Elite Four. But I digress!

I had huge writer's block; it's hard to keep writing the same story after a while. All sorts of ideas, old and new, were bothering me and telling me to put off NWHE. Anyways, hopefully you all will be fine with this and I can get back to my writer's block. I do have a request; I want your opinions on how I made the Pip-Boy removable in my story. I based it off of the wiki article saying it had biomechanical locks, meaning only the owner could take it off aside from a technician, so I would love input if that's passable. A helpful reader pointed it out to me and I'd love your input on it. And feel free to add anything else about my story that you are or aren't fine with.

NOTE!!! I totally fixed up this chapter. I had posted it in a rush, sorry, all. Lol.

Anyways, on with the chapter!

* * *

**|Chapter 23 - Ghouls and Humans|**

Down the street, they had come across another empty raider camp. Yet this time, they hadn't been the ones to clear it out. A good amount of mirelurks, it looked like, had been inclined enough to wander down the concrete bank of the Potomac and coincidentally overwhelm the few raiders, whose bodies had converged around an opening in their camp that faced the river. Alma had been slightly confused about this until they had found a mass of beer bottles strewn about the dining area. Drunken raiders and lost mirelurks probably made one hell of a fight, and explained the corpses' blunt trauma, cracked ribs, and torn skin that looked like saw blades had tried to scissor it. Of course, chipped pieces of light blue carapace and splotches of green blood littered the site of the fight as well, but she figured the mirelurks had left prefectly intact as they were nowhere to be found.

Though she wanted to stay and explore the small piece of treasure that was rifling through raider memorabilia, the thought of finding her father in Rivet City denied her the opportunity. She asked Charon to find any extra supplies while she tried to pick open an interesting ammunition box that had been hidden under a counter near a pair of bunk beds. Mainly because she needed something to do, and when she had carefully shook the box, she had felt something heavy bump around inside. Unfortunately, she hadn't picked a lock since escaping the vault around a month ago, so she managed to snap through three bobby pins before Charon came to do it for her. Surprisingly enough, he hadn't seemed as annoyed as she had expected him to be, and he even told her how to pinpoint the locking mechanism: she had to turn the pin to the far left and check to see how far the screwdriver would turn. If she felt resistance, she had to immediately stop turning and move the pin to the other side and repeat, and so on until there was less resistance. Then she needed to simply feel along every small amount until the pin hit the jackpot and the lock opened. After his lesson, she felt happy again. Simple little things like that made their time together much better. Somewhere deep inside she knew he felt the same way. He had to.

Yet, the sight of the Jefferson memorial was much more exciting than her bonding time with Charon, despite its strange look with the giant metal pipes leading out of it. And the reason she was smiling so broadly as its size became bigger and its structure became more detailed with each step, was that according to her Pip-Boy, Rivet City was right across from the monument. By the time she could clearly see the mouth of the Potomac blooming into the bay, she could just see the image of what looked like the bow of a ship jutting out of-

A sudden explosion erupted from the slope they were closing in on. It made the two of them immediately stop in their tracks and look tentatively onwards to the slope. Her hand flew to her Pip-Boy and silenced Roy Brown's voice (the lead singer to Butcher Pete), and immediately the sound of garish screaming and assault rifle fire washed over them. A pained yet husky shriek rose from the slope, the sound causing her to turn and look at Charon. His eyes glanced at her briefly before he nodded onwards, their pathway widening instinctually to get away from it, "Super mutants, Miss." Her body twisted back to face the slope, and she finally recognized that it wasn't broken cement and rebar lining its sides, but unfortunately familliar rusted girders and car parts jammed into the debris and soil. Another explosion sounded and Charon shifted to her left side, partially blocking her from potential gunfire as they inched closer to what she expected was the entrance to the encampment.

At this point, Charon was the one leading them, and she wondered what they would do if they were ambused by the mutants, if they would even notice them due to the commotion going on. She wondered if he knew what to do, or if he was trying to find a safe way for them to escape. Surely he wasn't going to try and provoke the mutants, was he? No, of course not. He was probably figuring a way to dive for safety. She hoped they could run faster than the mutants could aim and shoot. She wasn't ready to take on a group of mutants, and she would just be lag for Charon.

Alma glanced in the direction that they had been walking and her eyes set on the massive broken bow of an aircraft carrier that she had seen before, briefly distracting herself from the current dangerous situation. Wasn't Rivet City supposed to be around here? Her Pip-Boy, thanks to a quick glance, confirmed that they were very close to her destination. Maybe it was further down the street, perhaps in a subway tunnel. Her Pip-Boy did say that a subway tunnel was nearby.

"There's only one left, Dusk, blow it all to hell!" A slightly masked yet very strong voice rang out from around the corner. Alma squinted through the girders that blocked her sight of the entrance to the encampment. They were just close enough to round it, and as a hail of gunfire rained down on some creature behind the crude fencing, the two of them just managed to pass the blockade to see a small group of people, curiously dressed in steel grey armor and lugging miniguns on their backs. Her lips curled into a smile.

They were safe.

* * *

"Sentinal Lyons? Sentinel Sarah Lyons?"

That voice. She knew that voice. She had only heard it for so long and only knew its owner just enough to know exactly who it was that was calling her attention. Thankfully, the last centaur of the mutants had been downed, and she was free to loosen up and turn to see the one calling her. Yep. It was the girl all right.

"Alma Adler?"

The vaultie was just at the corner, and she waved slightly before turning to her side. She had somebody with her, but their form was hidden by the junk that lined the slope up to the camp. All she could see was a tall figure, most likely a man, dressed in leather armor and... apparently very badly sunburnt on his arms. The girl talked to them for a while; they were far enough from her troupe's position that she couldn't hear her, and Sarah watched as the man slung a combat shotgun to hang off his back alongside what looked like some sort of leather travel pack.

Dusk and Kodiak sidled up beside her, holstering their weapons and calming down from the recent encounter. "Is that that one vaultie we saw a week ago? At GNR?" Kodiak asked, and she nodded. "Shit, she's _still_ alive?" Sarah slid her eyes to glance at Kodiak, slightly peeved at his reaction. But it didn't matter overall, it didn't deserve any severe reprimand she had in mind.

"Oh yeah, I remember _her_. Remember that crazy story we got out of those kids in Big Town? I still don't believe that she did it, Sentinel." Dusk commented a bit snidely.

Sarah sighed, "Hey, give the girl a break. And be glad that 'crazy story' was good enough to keep Three Dog from sending us out to do more... wastelander... inter... views..."

As the girl and her aquaintence came closer to them while she was speaking, she at first thought the man was just grimy and of course, extremely sunburnt. Perhaps a wastelander that the vaultie had met. But as they came to a silent stop in front of them, she realized it wasn't poor hygiene or a sun screen deficiency. It was radiation. The ghoul-kind. The vaultie had made friends with a ghoul. Sarah could feel her teammates tense up in his presence, and even the ghoul himself did not seem pleased with their meeting.

"Miss Lyons, this is Charon," the vaultie smiled as she introduced them. They nodded to eachother. A stiff acknowledgement. "He's a partner of mine." It wasn't that she was biased against ghouls; most of the Brotherhood wasn't. But even so, it was a very uncomfortable experience for a Brotherhood of Steel member to come face to face with a ghoul. It just didn't happen, and if it did, it usually ended poorly. "It's nice to see you again, but very surprising. Weren't you and your brothers up at GNR?"

Sarah took her eyes from the tall ghoul to the vault dweller. She was a bit more tan than she had been a week ago. Close to losing that pallid, sickly look she had when they first met, the look of a typical fresh-from-the-hermetically-sealed-vault person. "Uh, yes, but only for a while. We came back down to the Citadel a couple days ago." The girl asked where the Citadel was out of complete curiosity. She almost belted out a slight insult, but caught herself. The girl was new to the Capital Wasteland, she had to remind herself, and for some reason, being rude to her, if only a little, didn't look like a good idea since the one who would deal any punishment was just in the corner of her eyes and staring her down something fierce. "Oh, it's across from here. On the other side of the Potomac. See it?" Her finger pointed to the large reinforced structure across the way. The girl turned to look, and after a while of looking, nodded. "It used to be a building called-"

"The Pentagon," she interrupted. Immediately she blushed red with embarrassment, "sorry, I think you told me what the building was called before though. Do go on."

Annoyed somewhat, she cleared her throat. "Anyways, we wouldn't be over here at all if it weren't for Rivet City having problems with this super mutant camp. Apparently the mutants were getting a bit too brash and were wandering around the entrance to the city and scaring off trade. One of the traders had been kind enough to come to the Citadel for the city and told us the story."

"_Originally_," Kodiak began, "we weren't going to send a squad over. We had bigger problems on our hands than a small amount of mutants stumbling around this fortress of a city." Sarah looked at him sharply, and he recoiled somewhat. Interrupting really pissed her off.

"But Sentinel Lyons decided to make us come here anyways." Dusk equally flinched as Lyons snapped her head around to glare at her as well.

"It broke up the monotony. The Citadel can be a pretty uninteresting place when the special ops team has to sit around in it all day." She looked back at the ghoul. He wouldn't take his eyes off of the three of them. It sent a chill up her spine.

The vault dweller smiled, "well it's nice of you to help out the city, but, where is it? All I see is this huge carrier..."

"... _That's_ the city."

At those words Sarah uttered with slight arrogance, the girl's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates, her smile growing just as big. _Well shit_, she thought, _here it comes_. And so commenced a good half hour of them all standing out in the sun as the girl gushed about the city. She asked questions ranging from its establishment date to what it smelled like in the broken bow. What color are the planes on deck. Are there robots inside. Do they have a security force or a sniper like Stockholm in Megaton. Do they have a sheriff or a collective panel of authority. Is there authority. How many stores are there. Are there any people her own age. Are there children. Are there old people. Do they like to read. Is there a library. Do the scientists wear lab coats. Who is Madison Li. Do you have to schedule an appointment with her. Is there a place to sleep. Do they eat mirelurk a lot. Do they keep mirelurks like cattle. Do they keep Brahmin on the ship. Are there ghouls in the city. And on and on and on she went, Sarah answering some, Kodiak and Dusk answering others.

The whole time, her "partner" stood stock still, his arms crossed and glazed eyes gazing at the broken statues that lined the walk up to the entrance. Something about him told her that he wasn't an ordinary ghoul. Maybe it was the way he could clearly express absolutely nothing that wasn't apathy in his facial features. Maybe it was that not once did he turn to ask the vaultie to stop, or offered his own knowledge of the place. But something wasn't _right_ about him. He stood stiff, almost uncomfortably so. She could even tell he was holding on to his elbows so tight, the red skin and muscle whitened somewhat. It almost seemed like he was _hating_ being there with them; then again, he _was_ a ghoul, and they _were_ from the Brotherhood.

"Oh I shouldn't keep you, though," the girl managed to conclude, and Sarah heard both of her companions sigh in relief. "Sorry about all that. At least _you_ didn't have to do all that answering, huh, Charon?" She smiled up at him and he looked down at her, arms still tightly crossed. And that's when she saw it. What was so strange about him. She knew there was more, but she could see some of it in the way he looked at her. How the girl looked at him. Of course on the outside, if you really weren't paying attention, you would simply think he was giving her some cold-shoulder gaze, that he was pissed off at her for some unexplained reason, from his stance to his gaze. Yet she could see it. It would have been hard to spot; both of them... she could tell they didn't know about it. They were probably completely ignorant of it, with the way they consciously regarded one another. But yes. She could see it.

Thinking about it almost brought a frown to her face. Not one of disgust, but extreme curiosity. Was it possible? Were they more than...?

"But I suppose you should get back to your duties, Miss Lyons. And Charon and I need to get in that ship. Hopefully we'll see you around, yes?"

"Ah, yeah. Sure thing. It was good to see you again, Miss Adler." Sarah smiled slightly and nodded, and the vaultie did the same. She wouldn't ask about the ghoul, thought she did want to know how they met, how they came to be. Something told her she would definitely see them again, and _then_ it would be a good time to ask. The two walked around the three of them, and they all turned to watch the girl wave a goodbye before almost skipping off to the entrance ramp to Rivet City, the ghoul thudding after her and grumbling almost inaudibly. After a while, they all turned to head back to the Citadel. The three of them were silent, trudging along the ground and concrete, sometimes moving their weapons around to give themselves relief. The meeting with the girl and her new partner had been enough to silence Kodiak and Dusk.

"Sentinel?"

Then again, she could have been wrong. "Yes, Paladin Kodiak?"

"The vault dweller and the ghoul have some sort of relationship together, don't they?"

Sarah almost balked, but sighed. She supposed it could be true. Supposed. "I don't know, Paladin. There's no reason to say they do," she looked over her shoulder at the now-distant entrance ramp to Rivet City, and could make out the forms of the two waiting for the bridge to swing out, "_but, _there's no reason to say they don't."

After that, they were silent again. She wondered why they even cared. Of course they wouldn't mention any of it to the brothers at the Citadel, but it sure was interesting to at least speculate about. She knew that it wasn't a rare thing for such relationships to happen, but it was pretty funny to think a vault dweller would have anything to do with a ghoul. Like she thought before, she wasn't biased, she didn't hate ghouls or their relations with the rest of the people, she just thought such things were unusual. And at that moment, she wondered what her two teammates could have possibly been thinking about it all.

"... Eww," Dusk muttered. Kodiak laughed. And despite herself, she laughed as well.

Ghouls and humans. Humans and ghouls. How silly.


	25. Rivet City in a Nutshell

**AN: **Yes! The first chapter in I think months has come! It's a bit shoddy yes, but woo! New chapter! And I've deleted the letter chapter because you guys don't need it anymore SINCE I AM CLEARLY BACK.

I have lots more motivation and am planning to definitely move forward some more. Thanks to all of you who waited, the story will get loads better (I hope!) in the next chapters. Love for all of you!

* * *

**|Chapter 24 - Rivet City in a Nutshell|**

"You want a_ private audience_ with Madison Li?"

"Umm... yes, sir. If that's all right."

The security guard named Harkness stood in front of her and Charon, blocking the way to the bulkheads that would lead them to the inner bowels of the ship. He didn't look very happy to see them at all. Even the assistant security guards scrutinized the duo, lined up behind Harkness and staring them down. For being the first people she met of Rivet City, she hoped that the others weren't as icy and intimidating as them.

"What makes you so special that you think you can just waltz on in here and ask the time of day with our lead scientist? Who are you?" She could feel Charon tense up behind her again. In fact, she wondered if he hadn't stopped being tense since catching up with Lyons.

"I'm not special, no, not like a trader or anything, sir. But I was told that my father came here. About five eleven, graying black hair, in his mid forties? British accent, probably unshaven? Maybe wearing a lab coat and a jumpsuit like mine?" At the look of the man about to immediately belt out a no, she spoke up again, "I was told he knew Madison Li personally. His name was James Adler, if that could do anything for you?"

Immediately, the man's eyes grew a tad larger and he opened his mouth, seemingly shocked by what she said. "So... you're that man's daughter..." He mumbled almost incoherently, before softening his glare. "Look, I do remember him coming by but I don't know if he's still here or if he's left. He came around about two days ago, and I had a lot of work on my hands so I'm sorry that I don't know much else. I'll escort you inside, but I would check with Madison's assistants before speaking with her yourself. Just to make sure you won't stress her out by showing up unexpectedly and drilling her with questions. She has a tendency to get very unreasonable if she feels put on the spot."

"Thank you very much, Mister Harkness," she sighed, pleased, and he nodded and turned. The assistant guards stepped aside and let them pass by without a problem. Alma didn't try to smile her thankfulness to them. She felt uncomfortable enough as it was under their eyes. They were suspicious. Even the man before them strode to a left-hand bulkhead stiffly, and didn't utter a sound as he pulled it open. A metallic, somewhat musky smell hit her nostrils and she grimaced; she hoped the rest of the ship didn't smell the same, or she'd be nursing a migraine soon.

The security guard led them across the stairwell to another bulkhead, and as it opened, she caught the sight of two children sprinting right for them. One was a brunette girl with a bob cut, and the other a boy seemingly too big for his clothes, and both were too absorbed in whatever game they were playing to notice the three of them in the doorway.

"C.J.," Harkness began to scold, "_what_ did I tell you abou-". She noticed him at the last minute. With a tiny squeal of surprise, the little girl smacked herself into the man before them. The boy, too, couldn't control himself and stumbled into Harkness as well. Alma looked on with intrigue; he hadn't even swayed from the kids' tumble into him. With a gruff sigh, he bent over and easily picked them up by the collars of their shirts and set them back on their feet. "Both of you would be in a lot of trouble if I had been in the mood to yell at little kids. Next time you two feel like running around the halls, go to the market instead where at least if you fall, you won't slam your heads into bulkheads or break your shins on metal piping."

The little girl looked resentful as she nodded her head, and the boy too shook his head sulkily, "Yessir, Mister Harkness sir," they said in unison. Alma bit her lip a little bit when the girl's eyes strayed past Harkness and met hers. Immediately, the girl lost her feelings of guilt and beamed, pointing to her and her bodyguard, "Mister Harkness! Who are those people? Ooh, who's that weird looking guy behind that girl?"

Harkness emitted a groan and waved his hand slightly. "They're nothing important, C.J. Here for a little business and I'm just showing them the way. Now please, let us by." The little girl grabbed the boy by the wrist and both of them backed up and out of the way, their eyes fixed on Alma and Charon. She smiled and waved somewhat; C.J. returned the gesture feverishly, but the boy simply sneered and turned his attention back to Charon, his mouth opening to say something she expected would have Charon hating him for days. "Oh, and James," Harkness turned to glare at the child, and he immediately looked to the man, "don't get into any trouble with Flak and Shrapnel; they're at wit's end with you sneaking ammo out of their store. I already confiscated your stash, too. Don't think we haven't got our eyes on you, boy." The boy groaned and turned away, his hand immediately twisting around and latching to C.J.'s wrist instead. The two marched out of the hall, and Harkness continued their walk to the bulkhead across the way.

When it opened, the smell of the large room was much different. It was light and airy, and the sound of machines whirring filled the air. Harkness aimed a finger at the middle of the room to a blond woman seeming to argue with an older man, "That's Janice Kaplinski. Talk with her about Madison. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a city to watch over."

"Thank you Harkness," Alma said, and he simply turned and left the room. The tense feeling around Charon eased up, and as she stepped down the staircase, she could feel him distance himself from her and give her space. Perhaps all of that intensity was simply because he had never been to Rivet City. Or maybe he was a little claustrophobic, was all.

* * *

It felt like hours as his smoothskin chatted with the woman named Janice. It was obvious that neither he or the woman wanted anything to do with the others company, but his smoothskin wouldn't let her go. Her question about the fresh fruits and vegetables on the table expanded into a hefty debate on whether or not she would get the chance to speak with Madison Li. At least the girl wasn't whispering to him anymore about the strange old coot in the corner of the room; moments before, the Janice smoothskin had been shouting at him about what true science was or some bullshit. That alone had made Alma go into a frenzy about her own ideas on science. It had been mortifying to let her go on and on and _on_...

But quite simply, Charon did not like Rivet City. It was dark and cold, smelled like dirty people and stale mirelurk meat. He had some vague and ridiculous idea that such a fortified city would be spruced up on the inside, but nope. The people lived in generally the same squalor as any other settlement (omitting Tenpenny of course) did. The only difference was that they were on a boat.

Snowflake, the Underworld hair stylist, would go into a tantrum if asked about Rivet City on his more sober days. "'Real fucked up people in there, As soon as I was ghoulified they made me leave. How the fuck does a hair stylist, of all people, survive outside of a fortified city and make a life for himself? He doesn't; Underworld is the last place I'd fucking be, but here I ended up and your dead skin I gotta trim.'" Of course the man hadn't spoken to him directly, he had been accompanying Ahzrukhal on his weekly visit to Snowflake to keep down his greener flesh from turning into a fiasco and keeping those tufts of hair from falling out. Charon, though he obviously wasn't one for appearances, was pretty satisfied with his own red hair left over from his human days. It didn't look irradiated and disgusting like most ghouls'. But in any case, until Charon met another saintly person like Alma, he would remain convinced the city was nothing special for him or anyone else that had the slightest defect.

"_Please_, Miss Kaplinski, Madison is the only one who would know, you said it yourself. Please talk to her on my behalf," his smoothskin pleaded, and the woman sighed; ten more minutes of the girl's relentlessness had passed and as far as she was concerned, she was done with it.

"Fine. I'll talk to her. But don't even_ think_ that you'll get to speak with her today. And unless you want to sleep in the halls, go to Vera Weatherly on the second floor for a room until then." He watched the woman turn to a clipboard she had left by a pile of ripe tomatoes and pick it up. "Don't bother asking if there's anything to do around here. I spend all of my time here in the hydroponics lab and plus, a room at the hotel will be ten times more interesting than, God, what is there here... the market or the museum or even that damned church. Don't even ask me about the bar," the woman shuddered at the apparent horror of the place, "all of those 'Rivet City Attractions' are nothing special, trust me."

So of course, by lieu of Kaplinski's slight rant about the city, he and Alma were combing through worthless garbage in the market. Or, she was. He stood by her as always, occupying his time by staring at a lawn gnome that somehow found itself on the second floor catwalk while the two of them garnered intrigued looks from the residents. The first store they had come across had been called Potomac Attire, and she had immediately spent ten minutes talking with the owner about fashion of the pre-war era and how to get oil stains out of fleece. After that, she had a conversation with one of the proprietors of Flak N' Shrapnel's about the importance of having a sidearm on hand. Much like when he had tried to convince her to get one, the store owner netted the same result. She simply blew it off as a nuisance and said she had Charon with her anyways, so why bother. The owner obviously looked disappointed at her words, both because he lost a sale and was probably expecting to lose her as a customer due to her ignorance. Charon made a mental note to really get on her hide about it that night as she interrogated a man named Seagrave who ran a store called Rivet City Supply about the broken bow of the ship, and tried to trick the woman heading the chem shop into telling her how the hell she acquired "Ant Queen Pheromones" when the only ant nests his smoothskin knew about were in the wastes. By the time she spent an additional thirty minutes asking the city chef how to make mirelurk taste good for a person who was raised on vault-grade rations, he wished that the smoothskin woman in the lab had never told her of the market and found himself already hating the museum and church.

They spent the rest of the day wandering around the city, his smoothskin chatting it up with the slightly put-off residents and pointing out various little things to him that she took more than a sane interest in. Though, he had to admit he preferred that she enjoyed herself. It was obvious that if her father really was in the city, they would have met up already and talking to Madison would no longer be a necessary evil (since talking to anyone in this damned city was). Charon had a feeling that if he wasn't here, the chances of finding her father were... slim. And the thought of her actually acknowledging that... he wondered what she would do. He knew she seemed to love him, but if he was gone for good, dead or alive, well, he really did not know what would happen. Something told him it wouldn't be pretty.

Yet, of all the places they hung around in and wasted time in, the church had been the most annoying. Not because it was a church in itself; he had been with employers on every side of the religion spectrum and didn't really care for or find annoyance with faith. It was because the priest of the establishment, when asked about the background of Saint Monica whom the church was named after, thoroughly believed this saintly figure was born from a pair of ghouls, yet didn't have any birth defects. It took him all of his strength to not explode on the man right then and there that such things, insemination and birth, were impossible. And by the look on his smoothskin's face when she listened to his sermon, she felt the same way. Suffice to say, they left shortly thereafter, surprisingly without incident. Despite his expectations, she never spoke up about the logical fallacies of the saint's origins, something he knew she had a hard time holding back.

In fact, she remained uncharacteristically silent until that night after buying a hotel room and busting in the door, slinging her pack to the floor, putting her hands on her hips, and staring straight at him as he set down his own bag. "How the hell can he run a church based on such idiocy?" Charon quietly moved her dirtied and overturned bag to the foot of the bed, placing his own pack down as well, "I mean, I understand, it's been two-hundred and something years since the bombs fell and people have to find their faith in something, but a saint said to be born from ghouls? Impossible! I know for a fact that such intense radiation would kill off any sort of fetus or mar it to unrecognizable proportions-"

"Alma, ghouls can't have children, period," he said to hopefully throw off her incoming complaints about birth complications. "And before you ask, male ghouls are incapable of getting female ghouls or humans pregnant, and of course, female ghouls cannot get pregnant period, even if they had sex with a human."

Her silence was a small, somewhat-but-not-enough-to-be-bothersome awkward gift for the rant to follow, "Well despite my ignorance, I still think that it's ridiculous. I mean, do any of the people on this boat believe in this so-called saint? I certainly hope not, because I swear, it took me all of my energy to keep silent when we listened to that sermon of his."

Charon leaned against the wall, arms folded, until she stopped. He didn't want to hear her complain anymore, it was a waste of breath. "What ti-"

"The_ time_? It's ten, Charon, if you must know, it's _ten_." She was still flustered about the church. He didn't expect her to react so violently about it all, seeing how most of the time she tolerated a lot of strange shit. "And yeah, okay, I'll go to bed. I'll just look forward to Miss Li, that'll calm me for the night." With an inwards smirk, he sat on the floor and crossed his arms to sleep. After she had gotten dressed for bed she asked him if he wanted his own room, but she reminded herself out loud about his contract, which was a first, and then immediately went to sleep. A recollection of the day's events ran through his head. He had to admit, not a day went by with his employer that wasn't interesting to think about. Perhaps he enjoyed her presence more than he thought all this time. Maybe a bit too much, considering his uneasy thoughts about when his contract would be terminated. Of course he hadn't gone to rest until long after she was out, but when he did, the idea of being so close to her father, and what could possibly happen to them, to_ himself_, when they found him, followed his thoughts to his dreams.

* * *

"He left."

"You, no, he's gone?"

The woman sighed, tapping the floor with the toe of her pump, "Yes, Alma. He left a couple days ago, right after he showed up here, actually."

"Well do you have any idea where he may have gone?"

She narrowed her eyes, "you aren't possibly planning on going after him? It's a wonder you made it down here, but, to go out into the real wastes..." The determined glare in the girl's eyes proved her reserve would not sway, and she sighed again. "He did mention something about going back to Project Purity. Starting it up again. You know it as the Jefferson Memorial."

Alma felt a desire to arch her eyebrows in intrigue, despite how much she didn't want to talk to the stuffy woman. As soon as she had realized that she was her father's daughter, she had been curt and blunt, as cold as stone. "What's Project Purity?" The woman, seeming to have some strange need to sigh every time she asked a question, did so.

"You already know your father didn't come from the vault," she began, and Alma nodded a bit spitefully. Of course Moriarty had told her when he set eyes on her impressionable, fresh-from-the-vault self, and by the time she had talked with Three Dog, she couldn't help but accept his true origins as fact. But she didn't want to dwell on his lies for now. She needed to know what this thing was and what he could possibly be doing with it. "Well, before you were conceived, before your parents even had an eye for each other, James, myself, your mother, and our friends all had a huge project we were working on in that memorial. Your father, one day, had come up with the radical notion to purify the irradiated waters of the Potomac. Most of the rest of our scientific colleagues wouldn't believe it, and wouldn't help, wouldn't try to get this project started. But something in your father swayed us. We _wanted_ it to happen, it would be the greatest thing we suspected would ever happen to these godforsaken wastes."

"Back then, the Brotherhood of Steel had a huge interest in our project, and helped us construct the labs and machinery in the memorial and would guard it for us while we worked. We toiled night and day to make a purifier strong enough to cleanse all of the water in the bay and river. Tests worked on smaller samples, but the main purifier still had trouble, yet we kept searching for answers. During those times your father took a liking to your mother. If they weren't professionals, they would have been quite all over each other."

"What about the purifier though? What came of it?" She really didn't want to hear of her parents. Not in an intimate or familial way. Not now.

"We began to make headway around the time your mother was pregnant with you. James was working harder than ever and we were so... so_ close_." Li crossed her arms. casting her gaze to the floor for a moment in frustrated silence. Her dark eyes darted back up to her and Alma grimaced, "that is, until _you_ came around." It almost seemed like she was blaming her birth as the reason for everything wrong in the world, the way she said it so venomously. "When you were born, when your mother died... that's when all work on the project stopped. James didn't want to bother with it anymore. All he had was you, and he didn't want _you_ out in the wastes. He was too blind to see all of the people who believed in him were crushed when he left. To take you to that vault. Like he promised he'd never let a loved one die like that again. And with him gone, we lost our hope and motivation. And the Brotherhood too. It became dangerous to be out there without protection and nothing to work for, of course. Came back to the city and furthered our studies in hydroponics. We never heard from him again in these last nineteen years. Not until now."

"He wants to start Project Purity back up again..." Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw a somewhat-frazzled Charon burst through a bulkhead and make a beeline for her. She almost forgot that she had left the room early for this.

Madison nodded, a small amused grin on her lips. "Yes, yes, he came in demanding help or something from us to start it. But we can't just leave the lab, not after all we've done and have yet to do. I won't stop my work so quickly nowadays, as you can imagine."

Charon was at her side in almost a blink of an eye, radiating hostility and annoyance, "so he's there? In the memorial? I can find him there?"

This time, the sigh was sympathetic. "I'm not sure. That's where he said he was going. I don't know where else he could be, but you're never sure. It's dangerous there, overrun by super mutants. If he's there, it might have just been suicide."

"Well, I'm going to find him. Dead or not." She said affirmatively, and Li looked stunned for a moment. "I have a lot of things to discuss with him, I _need_ to find him."

Madison shook her head slightly, and eyed the both of them. Alma could see her dark eyes scanning over the two of them. Judging, observing. "I can't go with you of course... But I wish you luck, and no harm on your father or yourself. Despite everything, I still respect him. Give him my regards if he lives, and my prayers if not. I'm sorry I can't help you further." With that, Alma said her goodbyes to the woman and the others who had been eavesdropping. Her search for her father wouldn't end until she found him herself. Charon made no objections (or at least didn't hint at them) as they set out for the memorial, leaving the safety of the carrier behind. Before they would actually step foot inside, she planned on asking Charon to teach her any additional lessons in the art of firearms. Though she was certain she would fare much better than back in Germantown, she needed to be assured by someone other than herself.

The sun was still just peaking over the horizon of the morning as the two marched silently to the infested memorial, guns loaded and nerves set on the impending threat of death.

"Miss?" Charon's voice was a welcoming thing to hear after her talk with Li. It made her smile.

"Oh, yes, Charon?"

"May I ask that you please never leave your room without informing me ever again?"

She almost laughed. What a silly thing to ask. She was safe in the city anyways, but she decided to humor him. "Sure thing."

"No. I am serious. Don't do that. _Ever_." His voice was hollow and angered. And a trace of something else was in it. He both frightened her by how angry he sounded and piqued her interest at what else his voice was trying to imply but his words clearly weren't.

"... Okay, I'm sorry for that. I hope you weren't upset for that little blunder earlier?" He didn't respond. Or talk again until they reached the catwalks surrounding the front of the memorial, hunkering down behind a pile of rubble and re-checking their guns as a mutant, their first target, loomed further above. _Maybe_ he was a little more bothered than she thought. No worries, all hostility toward her would leave soon and be directed at the green giants that lumbered along the catwalks.

... Right?


	26. An Apology

**AN: **New chapter! I suck at combat! Woo!**  
**

**

* * *

****| Chapter 25 - An Apology |**

Despite the surprisingly successful shelter of the boulder hiding them from the eyes of the mutants on the catwalks, the scuffle turned out to be pretty fucking annoying. Right now, of course, the both of them had managed to migrate to the western side of the monument and were organizing the small amount of provisions they had taken from the corpses, but how badly it had been for them to get there almost made him forget that she was still a newbie to firefights, despite her earlier experience.

Now, of course, the mutants lay riddled with bullet holes on the rusted walkways behind them, and he was ready to launch into a lecture to her like a subordinate, wanting to yell at her poor firearm skills and also mention his frustration and anxiety to awaken once again to her missing earlier that day. But he corrected himself before breaking her spirits and making a fool out of himself. Though the mutants had shaken her, she wasn't stirred. He had a feeling that would all change when they would enter the memorial. This whole endeavor didn't sit well with him at all, but he didn't want to make her break down before she eventually would. Would make it harder to get where they needed to be, of course.

The memorial was a sight that had caught her full attention once the fight had settled. The island was covered with boulders and shriveled black tree trunks, and the structure itself was surrounded with rusted girders, piping, catwalks and scaffolding. She had commented on the state of the structure itself, saying something about lintels and pediments and marble veneers. Architectural terms, he knew that. Why she knew them though, he didn't understand. She had mentioned something about the entrance blockaded with concrete slabs and the bombs of 2077, and had marveled at the sewer pipes that extended from the concrete and the staircases. He didn't understand what was so great about such an ugly thing, but perhaps part of her admiration had to do with her father's stigma on the site.

"So, shoot for the kneecaps?" She looked up at him with the intensity of a soldier in training. They were moments away from going inside.

"Knees, shoulders, any limb that's controlling movement or weapons. Heads are harder to shoot, but easier under the shock of limb loss." He kept his hand on the handle of the door, wanting to make sure he was the one controlling their entry. "You aim for limbs and I'll do the finishing kills. Stay in the shadows, if you can."

As he expected she made headway for the door, an excited smile on her face, but he held up his hand to stop her. "And most of all, do_ not_ make a sound. If we want to survive this, we must stay silent."

"Yes yes, I _know_. Now please, let's get in there. I need to know dad is ok."

He opened the door a sliver and motioned for her to enter first. She squeezed in and he came behind her, shutting the door softly. The hall they had entered would have been as black as tar if it hadn't been for the small, white emergency light above their heads. Before them were piles of trash and scattered papers, too destroyed to bother trying to read. The blue-black marble flooring sloped to the center of a hallway crossroad, with a recently-lit oil lamp in the middle next to an overturned desk. His smoothskin smiled at him with growing excitement, yet he lifted a finger to his cracked lips before her opened mouth made a noise. With a gesture, he directed her to the shadows, and with him leading, they went closer and closer to the lit piece of hall that loomed before them. For being infested with mutants, he had yet to see telltale signs of the beasts' residency. No bloody, rotting limbs wrapped up in netting. No hastily-rigged tripwires in the halls or glints of metal barrels from rigged shotguns. Not even the-

Oh fuck.

The _stench_.

The smell was so strong he could almost taste it. Not as bad as decayed corpses, but still bad enough to leave an impact and lace the air with toxicity.

"Ick, what the he-" His hand shot to cover her mouth on instinct. And in good time, too. Just as she was silenced, a massive shadow stepped out from a corner only a couple feet away from them. The mutant was fiddling with a grime-encrusted, heavily worn assault rifle, snarling in simple words about the intelligence of the inanimate object.

"Stupid gun! Jammed up and won't fire! I'll twist you into scrap metal!" He stopped right before them, his hands working in a fury at the gun. Charon felt her lips through his glove snap shut, and he took it away from her mouth slowly. Good; she stayed silent.

With a soft, inaudible breath, he brought his hand to his back and pulled the shotgun from behind him as slow as he could, since if he moved any faster, the mutant would catch sight of him out of the corners of his lemon yellow eyes. Raising the shotgun up to his shoulder, he aimed it at the meaty green calf before him. He could even see beads of sick-smelling sweat roll down the back of the mutant's leg.

Was the hallway hot? He couldn't tell. But his trigger finger sure was itching to pack some heat in the brute.

A deep, throaty shout of horror forced itself from the creature's mouth as his body twisted and floundered. A gaping hole now sat were most of the calf muscle had been, the flesh ripped to shreds and sinewy, bloody muscle tendrils flailing as he fell forward in shock and pain. Charon had felt Alma tense at the sudden blast from the shotgun, but was grateful she hadn't screamed or done anything stupid as he stepped out from the shadows and single-handedly shot off the back of the mutant's downed skull. She seemed to crawl out from behind him as she approached the giant green body, her eyes calculating. Maybe, he guessed, trying to figure out how to do what he just did. Silly little thing, his smoothskin. Such... ambition.

Just then, a ripple of bullet fire cut through the crossroad and the two of them dove for cover as the bullets carved holes in the floor, across the hall, and up the cracked wall; unfortunately, he found himself across the hall with her still behind. She breathed heavily, her chest noticeably rising and falling with a hand over her heart. The fire went on for a couple seconds before stopping, making him wonder what the mutant shooting at them was doing. But he couldn't sit there for long, or both of them would be in some deep shit.

In any case, their cover was blown, so talking was the only way to control the situation now. "Miss," he called, and her head quickly turned to his voice. "Stay where you are. Don't go in the hall no matter what I do next." She simply nodded, and turned her gaze back to the wall before her, her expression still filled with surprise and fright. Probably the closest she had gotten to being shot. He kind of wished it would just happen already, so she wouldn't get so jumpy whenever a bullet even remotely flew in her direction.

He needed to get over to her. Calm her down. It would be the only way to get a firm handle of the situation, if they could work together. He held his breath as he leaned his head forward slightly, looking down the dangerous hall. Aside from a sandbag barricade in the adjacent room, he couldn't see any trace of a mutant. Maybe it was crouching, or somewhere in the shadows... No. Wait. Something on the ceiling glinted. And started to move the longer he kept his head out of cover. His eyes shot to the surrounding walls of the hall and set on a console affixed to the wall before the room. It was a security turret. He wrenched his head back as another assault flew down the hall, watching as the corner of the wall chipped and smoked with the gunfire, inches from his face. It was dangerous as fuck to get close to the thing, he knew that. Though he suspected its targeting parameters were poor. It took the machine a while to get a reading on him, long enough for him to notice a way to work around the threat. The doors to the room had been swung open in their direction, and were intact with clouded glass panes. His plan could buy them time to try to disable the gun, or at least get closer to cap it should the first attempt fail.

"Alma."

"Yeah, Charon?"

"It isn't a super mutant, it's a turret. There's a computer terminal right next to us that controls it."

An out-of-place twisted smirk arose on her lips, "and you want me to try to use that to disable it?"

A familiar feeling of frustration began to surface. Now was not the time for her to play her little games. "Yes, beca-"

"Because I'm from a Vault and should know_ all_ about that kind of stuff, huh?"

"_Yes_," he grunted in annoyance, "now all we have to do is run into that hall and close the doors so the sensors don't see us. Do you think you'll be quick enough?"

A look of surprise shone on her face. Caught. "Oh, um, I'm not too sure..."

The gunfire settled once again, "now's our chance. _Go_!" In her surprise, she had faltered behind him as he lunged down the hall, but with a dive she slammed her side of the door shut as he closed the other one. He grabbed her by the arm and forced her to duck down below the glass; the sensors could probably trace shadows.

"Charon, that was _not_ what I had in mind, that was-"

He pointed to the terminal on the wall behind them, his face grim. "Not now; try to hack that thing so we may move on." With an annoyed look, she turned and crawled on her hands and knees to the terminal before getting up and clacking away at the keyboard. He moved close to her so he could swipe her feet out from under her if the turret could still see them behind the glass. Sure, she would complain about bruises and whatever the hell else she wanted if he did it, but she wouldn't be dead.

Even so, he felt his pulse quicken as time started to drag by. The clacks became faster and more hasty, and he looked up to see her grumbling and sighing at the terminal, a look of anger on her face, "what's taking so long?"

"I'm trying but... I, I can't hack it. I only know the basics about computers, dad never taught me..."

He groaned and pulled her arm so she'd get back on the floor. With a harsh gaze, he signaled to her to stay put as he squat and reached over to her and pointed to her rifle. With a confused look, she handed it to him and he sat still for a moment, not wanting to prolong the wait but still slightly unsure of his next method of attack. With a breath, he took the butt of the rifle and smashed it into the window pane, the fragile glass exploding into the room, a few shards falling on his side of the door. In a quick motion, he aimed the rifle at the turret, which had immediately looked at him yet kept itself from shooting. He was right, thankfully, that the parameters were shot. And the gun itself shot, as the bullet flew into the heart of the machine, blue and white sparks erupting from the hole and the barrel of the sentry gun slumping to aim at the floor. He stood, his employer behind him, and they entered the room, no sign of mutants in sight. He handed her gun back to her and listened to her reload it as he scoped out the room behind the sandbag barricade.

It was filled with computer equipment, towering blocks of plastic and lights and switches, consoles and screens. Even more papers were strewn about, accompanied with broken pencils, clipboards, and even piles of wiring and chips from the computers themselves. He almost shouted at her as she ran ahead, beginning to root through the debris and junk. But as he stopped her, he realized that they were truly safe in the room. If there had been more mutants, they would have attacked by now. No matter how stupid the brutes were, they would have come rushing had they heard any gunfire. "Charon, just_ look_ at this! It's full of out-dated equipment, yes, but this room is a great makeshift lab," she began to toy with everything she set her hands on, too goddamn excited to get a grip and actually search for evidence of her father's whereabouts. "Here are a few retorts and alembics... oh! Some of them still have solutions in them. I wonder what they are?" Her hands flew over the glassware that littered the tables in the room as he decided to wander only slightly to get a read of how they could keep going. "Oh, if only I could read these notes, they're too damaged..." He determined there were three doors out of the room. Two led to the rotunda, a fancy word for the domed room, and one led to the basement. He had seen a manhole too, but he had a feeling not even someone as crazy as her _or_ her father would go in the sewers.

As he concluded his examination of the room, his employer came up to him, a look of slight concern on her face, "no sign yet, I assume?"

"Yeah, but I'm sure there's _something_. What are our options?"

"The rotunda and the basement, Miss."

She bit her lip slightly, but nodded, "rotunda first, then the basement, since we can only go down from this level." Charon turned to one of the doors and they practiced the same maneuver, opening it slightly and squeezing in. Yet, as they entered the room, it was apparent there were no mutants in the room. Yet, god, was it something else. The two of them almost gaped at the huge column of machinery in the center of the dimly lit room, surrounded with water and catwalks. An operations room sat in the middle, with tubing and piping and wiring all around it. His employer was dumbstruck; she climbed the stairs up to the room slowly, her hand not leaving the railing or the wall until her eyes caught on a collection of little white squares sitting on top of a console. Holotapes. Immediately she snatched them up, a look of curiosity and excitement on her face. "Dad left these behind up here, I'm sure of it. But... Charon, is there any way out of here?"

He turned to look through the windows of the room which faces all sides of the rotunda. Except for the two doors leading to the lab, there wasn't any other way out, not even a manhole. "No, seems like the only other place to look is the basement." He looked back to catch his smoothskin staring at the giant tube of water in the center, trying to peer past the murk to a shadow that sat motionless in the center.

"... Then let's get down there."

* * *

Alma felt more and more depressed the further they went into the basement. Around every corner was a mutant or a centaur, up to six of the beasts total, and evidence of their hostility abounded. The more mutants, the smaller the chance of finding her father alive, she figured. She wouldn't know where else he would go besides Rivet City, so when the sweep of the basement was complete, she was incredibly worried. The only thing that could help was listening to the holotapes she and Charon had found in some of the rooms, and the three that Li gave to her when first speaking about her parents. Indeed, seeing her father's dream in such disrepair and evidence of the people who had once worked there, from abandoned clipboards to handguns to foodstuffs, was quite upsetting. She didn't want to think that her birth had single-handedly stopped all work on the purifier, but all she could do was listen to the journals she had amassed and see how it all played out.

They had found the most recently disturbed room in the basement, complete with a bed frame and thin mattress, and a good amount of tapes on the desk inside. A glass of some sort of alcohol sat half empty and all of the surfaces in the room had been dusted clean. "Dad was in here... He's gone now, but he was here." She quietly moved aside his things, various notes and such, as she collected the last few tapes. Charon sat on the bed behind her, now back to his silence that the threat of danger was eliminated. He was acting rather agreeable despite what had happened that morning. Perhaps she had been right about him changing his mind. But as she sat down, she decided her father was much more important than Charon's various ticks. Her fingers fiddled with the various tapes she splayed out on the desktop, a frown of concern on her lips. Which one to use first... the ones Li had given her. Those first. Picking up the tape labeled "1", she gave Charon a furtive glance before popping it in the player integrated into her Pip-Boy.

The voice on the tape was her father's. It sounded younger, more optimistic. Less tired than how he sounded the last time she spoke with him. He talked about very trivial things, such as Brotherhood of Steel members repairing sentry guns and Madison Li's dislike of them. And then he mentioned her mother feeling sick, being noted as a slight burden to the other scientists. Nothing to gather current information from, unfortunately. Nice to listen to, but not helpful. The second journal, listed as number three, revealed her mother's pregnancy and minor setbacks on the project, but a huge motivation to keep working for the benefit of the incoming generation. Namely, herself. The third journal was set sometime later and she frowned at his noting of super mutant attacks and Brotherhood members being cut down. As she listened, she could tell this was when the project's productivity and hopes began to turn down; her father sounded much more pessimistic. A notable increase of worry.

But what bothered her the most were the next two tapes. When her mother died, when her father lost all hope for the project. His predictions of failure, his depression of her mother's death. And his resolve to leave with her instead of continuing work, despite how much her mother would have wanted it. The beginning of the nineteen-year standstill.

Madison had been right. Her birth stopped Project Purity.

It left a sour taste in her mouth. She understood why it had to happen, but didn't know what to think of Li herself. Though her father clearly had doubts of it continuing, it still could have kept going. But she supposed the lack of his leadership and tolerance had been the kicker. Alma smiled a small bit to herself; she didn't like the woman anyways, and found it a bit funny that she failed her father and lived up to his expectations.

The rest of the tapes, recently made and labeled, documented her father's new-found ambition for the project, and his regret of leaving her behind. It made her eyes wet, listening to his challenges. Madison's rejection of his pleas and the fact the project never left his mind for all of those years, and the lack of technology needed to get it up and running. On the last tape was her only clue to her father's whereabouts, that, despite the sense of hopelessness of finding him, gave her confidence.

Vault 112. Home to someone named Stanislaus Braun, a man her father seemed to most definitely look up to. Somewhere west of Evergreen Mills, which happened to be the same place her friend Elizabeth mentioned going to. Perhaps, perhaps she could stop by there and ask Elizabeth for help finding the garage her father mentioned. She twirled around to face Charon, who had seemed to lapse into some sort of trance during the playback of the holotapes.

"Charon, do you know where that place is? Evergreen Mills?"

"Huh..? Oh, yes, I do. But Miss, don't you think it's a bad idea to-"

"We're going there. Elizabeth said she'll be there. Remember her?" Her bodyguard looked at her, but she couldn't get a read on his face. The lights were too dim. "She might be able to help us."

"Miss, you don't seem to understand, Evergreen..."

"_No_, Charon. We are going there. I'm sure you have no idea where the garage is either, so Elizabeth is our only hope." She stood up so quick, the chair tilted and fell back, knocking against another desk. She immediately turned to set it right when her eyes caught on an old holotape on the floor. Maybe the chair had knocked it into sight?

"Miss, Evergreen Mills is _incredibly dangerous_-"

The holotape she had found was already in her Pip-Boy. She held up a finger to silence him, despite his growing anger even she could feel. The voice on this one was different, a woman's.

**-... Madison and I are convinced it's a problem with the second filtration system. We're going to recalibrate the equipment and try again tomorrow so that... James, _please_, I'm trying to work. Now's not the time! ...So that's the next step. Assuming we get the results we need, we'll move on to.. _James_!...-**

It was her mother. Her laughs were loud and full of life as her father annoyed and interrupted her over and over. Alma felt her heart suddenly cave in. She had never known her mother, but listening to her speak... it was like she had known her her whole life. Her voice sounded almost like her own, a slight bit lower, but like her own. She felt her throat dry, and suddenly felt ridiculous for the wetness that resurfaced in her eyes again. She hadn't even known her, but she was on the verge of tears?... Alma understood why her father left now, why he decided to try and start the purifier again. He wanted to make a life for his family, but a life had already been taken away. This purifier was a way to apologize to she and her mother both for leaving them, ruining what could have been a good life for them. For making false promises, for abandoning hope for them.

It was decided. Despite Charon's protests, they would find Elizabeth. They would get help. She didn't want her father to suffer any more, and God help those that got in her way.


	27. Saviors

AN: Oh, hello again fanfiction. Long time no see. Short, but my motivator to get stuff done. Woo woo.

**

* * *

|Chapter 26 - Saviors|**

Two days later, wandering somewhere to the west with his smoothskin leading their two-man entourage, equipped with every type of provision they had taken from the Memorial and raider encampments they cleaned out before they left D.C., he was beginning to question her sanity. They had run across a wastelander in the city a day earlier, and her petty chit chat had revealed they were wandering out alone, going straight in the direction of a figurative minefield. The person simply nodded and shrugged to anything she said at that point, not willing to get involved in that degree of crazy.

When they moved, she walked as fast as she could, her fists unconsciously clenching and unclenching, her eyes staring hazily into the horizon. Every once in a while she would check her Pip-Boy to be sure they were on the same path, but otherwise, there was no interruption unless he persuaded her to stop. Her focus was so firm, that she never noticed the various warning signals of running into an animal or a raider encampment; twice he had to yank her back from walking on a landmine, and a few other times he had to shove her aside to save her from a rabid dog's lunge at her throat or a stray radscorpion's sting. Not to mention when they did run across the insects, she wasn't bothered by them, even if they charged right at her; her fear seemingly vanished. She was in a state of mind he couldn't comprehend. A fierce determination and lack of self awareness, complete will to march into a puddle of acid if needed be, as long as she followed that path to her goal.

When they stopped at the bombed-and-raided diner in Jury Street, she was the one to reach among the corpses and rip away their ammo, their possessions, anything that they needed. He had stood guard, but his eyes stayed locked on her more than anything. Even as she carefully combed the diner for items of importance, and wallowed among rubble and festering body parts, her expression was blank yet deep in thought. He had smirked to himself in irony as he watched her; so this is what Alma saw when she looked at him. A silent husk of a person, never needing to speak or interact, only focused on one purpose. It was interesting how they were acting like each other. Between the two of them, he was the one to talk more and interrupt her train of thought. She was never very perceptive to begin with, but he began to notice little odds and ends, points of interest that usually she would be able to spot ten miles away. And most interesting of all, he felt a desire to have her speak to him like before, to give attention she was refusing him. Perhaps... was this really what she felt? Did she have these same thoughts? Her new attitude was so foreign, so much like his own, that he almost believed they had embodied each other's personalities. He found himself wondering what she was thinking, how he would make her break out of that unfamiliar shell. But when she stood up with her arms full of provisions, and when she had portioned everything and gave him his half of the share, he forced those thoughts to disappear. She was leading them straight into a raider nest; now was not the time to think of such trivial things.

When they set off again, heading directly west from Jury Street, they came across a super mutant encampment on a set of train tracks. But, with their vantage point being above the camp on the top of a train tunnel, and his smoothskin having handed him her rifle, the mutants had died rather quickly with shots to the brain. He wasn't pleased with her making him kill the beasts, seeing how she had been so gung-ho about learning how to become an effective marksman. Marching down the sloped sides of the tunnel and approaching the two green corpses, blood and bits of gray matter spattered on their bodies and pooling in the dirt, he decided to stay silent about his annoyances with her. Again, not the time to do such a thing. She pointed to the body farthest from them, and he nodded in understanding, having become used to her gestures replacing her words. He crouched along the toppled mutant's side and began inspecting the various bits of clothing and armor for any trace of ammo or medical supplies, trying to ignore the rancid odor that came off of its body.

"... Anything good?" He found himself welcoming any interruption of the silence they had been walking with.

"Nothing on it," he said, before turning to a pile of boxes close to the corpse. Rifling inside, he finally found spare ammo for the assault rifle his mutant had been holding. "There's some extra ammo here, actually. Some magazines for the assault, a drum of shells and a box of thirty two calibers. No stimpaks or anything, though."

"Okay, I found two magazines of assault ammo on this guy," he listened to her stand up as he picked up his mutant's rifle and inspected its condition. "Nothing else worth taking seems to be here... wait, Charon, look at this." He grunted as he stood, and he turned to see what she found such intrigue in. An open boxcar filled with junk had seemed to catch her interest. He came up to her as she shuffled around the bits and pieces of uselessness, and watched her eyes catch on something with a spark of life he felt relieved to see. "Why do you think they put that in there?" A shopping cart cage, laced with barbed wire, was a bit unsettling; a teddy bear was enclosed inside it, sitting perfectly straight, hardly a mark on its fur. Something about it seemed off. Like the toy car in Hamilton's. Otherworldly. Strange.

"I don't know, Miss. They're super mutants, they do things we don't understand."

He watched her stare hard at the bear in the cage. "... I want it," she declared, and she carefully wrapped her fingers around the bars of the top cart and began to lift. Charon grimaced at the loud screeching that came from the hinges of the cage; the barbed wire made it hard to grip the top cart, and it opened painfully slow, his employer seeming to strain somewhat. "These cages don't usually open so hard, is it rusted or something?" He took that as an invitation to inspect the back of the cage, which happened to be shrouded in shadow and junk. Yet as his eyes raked the hinges for rigging, he heard a loud cracking sound. "I got it open!" Something didn't seem right. He leaned closer to the cage, eyes searching. "Charon, didn't you hear me? I have the bear." He couldn't see what he was looking for, but what was left of his ears did pick up some strange sounds coming from somewhere among the piles of junk. A click sounded, then a whirr.

"Fuck, it's a trap!" He cursed and scrambled away from the cart, pulling his smoothskin with him. Just as they cleared from the cart, a baseball rocketed out from the pile of junk next to the cage. Then a can of food, then an empty bottle of Nuka Cola. His smoothskin wriggled out from his grip as whatever the trap was became apparent; it was a pitching machine hidden in the garbage.

"This is a trap?" She turned to look at him, an amused grin on her face. He shrugged and looked away. So it turned out the trap was just some stupid thing a mutant managed to set up on its spare time; she can't blame him for trying to keep her safe. "Though, isn't it a bit odd that the machine isn't even facing the cage? Look," he followed her pointed finger to the tunnel, where the junk was being shot at. There sat the baseball, the can, and the cola bottle, along with the other items that were crashing on the ground there. "Why have the machine shoot into the train tunnel instead of shooting at whoever opens the cage?" His interest was lost at this point. His employer was definitely being herself again; going to ridiculous measures to get her hands on a teddy bear, and putting too much thought into a super mutant's ability to plan a prank on his partner. But he was relieved she wasn't so distant like before. The stress of her father having disappeared once again had put a lot of weight on her shoulders, he figured. Having run into this meaningless little camp and observe such stupidity probably took her mind off of him and gave her some time to relax. "Wait... Charon, look again. Do you see what I see?"

Whatever she was staring at, he couldn't see it, "no, where am I supposed to be looking?"

"In the train tracks, don't you see? The machine keeps aiming for the same spot, but the things it's shot out so far keep missing the mark. And I think that mark is-" An explosion erupted from the tracks, a charred baseball rocketing out of the tunnel. Another explosion flowered out a bit deeper in the tunnel. And another, and another. A chain reaction of landmines, their fiery, smoky bursts popping deeper and deeper. "Charon, why would they set up something like this?..." He felt the sensation of hair standing on end, though he had none. The explosions got significantly quieter the deeper they went, seeming to die out.

Until a mass eruption and a cacophony of crashing metal reached their ears.

"Charon, what's happening?" The earth began to shake as the roaring noise came closer. His smoothskin instinctively ducked behind him. "Charon, what's going on?" For some reason, it felt futile to pull out his shotgun. "Charon-"

"I don't know, goddamnit." He felt his heart race. He didn't want to feel what he was feeling right now. The crashing and screeching grew louder and louder, and the shaking of the earth rocked everything around them. Massive thud after massive thud progressed in their direction, and the only thing he could think to do was run. "We need to leave, we need to get out of here." He whipped around, grabbing her wrist and pulling her with him in his sprint.

"Charon... do you think... it's one... of those giants?" As their boots kicked up dirt in their wake along the tracks, he took a moment to look behind them. A horrible, deep-throated roar pierced his ears, and he watched as huge green limbs helped a towering body squeeze out of the tunnel. One muscular hand gripped a telephone pole topped with a fire hydrant, the torso covered with car parts and tree limbs. The behemoth stood up and immediately set its beady eyes on the two of them, tossing its bludgeon to the other hand while its disfigured face strained to make a sneer of rage and excitement. Somehow, they unleashed a behemoth. A monster of monsters, a mutant the size of an office building. He had only seen one once, deep in the D.C. ruins in the parking lot of a factory in the north. Either they were elusive despite their size, or whoever happens upon them probably dies before they spread word that there's a hellish giant in the vicinity. His employer at that time had the kind of insanity that made them want to hunt giant mutants with a simple hunting rifle and bullets of fucking magic, because they really did believe their peashooter could cap one of them. Wanted to mount the thing's head on a wall. When their legs were crushed by a piece of concrete flung at them by the behemoth, their ambitions had clearly dimmed somewhat.

"Just... keep... fucking... running!" He could tell she wasn't quite in shape. She lagged behind him, occasionally giving his arm a tight yank to propel herself closer to him. The behemoth's roars echoed behind them, and they instinctively ducked to a sudden sound of the fire hydrant bludgeon smashing aside a boxcar behind them. The crushing stomps of the giant shook the earth and even made Charon stumble as they ran alongside the train tracks. The sounds of fragile, centuries old metal being crushed and bent screeched in his ears, and he pulled Alma along as much as he could without off-setting her balance and sending her to her death. They couldn't outrun something that huge in such a big space. He knew eventually she would tire out, and the monster would catch up to them and rip them apart. He had no idea what to do. The wastes were flat for miles, the train cars alongside them useless to hide in. There was nothing he could do but hope that they would keep running. Even so, her haggard breathing pulled at his heartstrings, and he felt an overwhelming sense of defeat. She tried to talk, but she was too tired. His own lungs were beginning to sting, and he felt her stumble and almost bring him crashing to the ground. He pulled her to him and held her tight as they ran, forcing her to keep pace. He breathed heavily, the dusty winds of the wastes clogging his lungs with every breath. His own legs begged him to stop; he hadn't run like this for a while. Alma clung hard to him but he could feel her slipping, her body wanting to stop.

He didn't want to think about it. What was rampaging behind them. What that meant.

He didn't want to think that right here, right now, their lives were grasping at straws.

Was this how he wanted it to end? With his smoothskin nothing but a sticky red mess on the bottom of a mutant's boot? His contract utterly failed, every rule broken? To die so easily, so quickly? Simply snuffed out of existence? Her bones bleached by the harsh sun of the wastes, her last moments hoping that he would somehow save her, that everything would turn out all right because he was all there was between herself and death?

"Duck you fucking morons!"

Before he could register what was happening, he and Alma were in a tangle on the ground, and a ear-popping explosion rippled behind them. Clouds of earth and dirt sprang up around them, and he squinted his eyes trying to see through the mess.

"Get the fuck up and get over here; everyone else, pump that giant full of lead!"

He felt for Alma's hand; he had let go of it. He still couldn't see, and gunfire and whistling din made the rest of the world mute. Getting on his knees, he turned to feel for her in the cloud. Her hand suddenly latched onto his own, and he felt a wave of relief as she came into sight and he helped her stand up. The two of them didn't speak; they simply ran toward the voice that they heard. He didn't know what was happening. All he knew was that Alma was safe and that whatever was going on, they both had a chance to escape the giant behemoth behind them.

" Charon, what's going on? I can't see a thing..." Her voice was chock full of dirt, it sounded like. She coughed some as they made their way toward the voice that Charon had heard before the explosion.

"Don't talk; all of that dirt will clog up your lungs," he admonished. She kept silent, coughing some, as they began to reach a break in the haze of dust and dirt. The whine in his eardrums began to dissipate slowly, and the sound of assault fire became crisp, along with the garbled roars of the behemoth behind them. His muscles began to burn, and he knew for a fact that she was running on sheer willpower. As soon as they broke through the haze, a snarl forced itself onto his lips at the sight of their saviors.

Raiders.

"Come on come on, ya fuckin' zombie." A female raider with a thick Bostonian accent harped at him as he practically pulled Alma and himself up to her. With one hand holding up her chinese assault rifle, the other beckoned them to her and jerked them behind her with a strong claw. "Guys! I've got the schmucks. Let's start pullin' this son of a bitch in, all right?" A roar of excited whoops and cheers echoed from the slowly-settling dirt cloud, and Charon watched as a gang of twelve or thirteen raiders sped out of it, racing each other down the train tracks. He looked ahead of them and was surprised to see a cliff face not too far away, the inside carved out and home to train tracks and cars. Had the mutant really chased them down this far? Or was it not as far as he had thought?

"Hey, you, worms for brains. I didn't get the guys to bring down that motherfucker for nothin'. What's say you hand over your girlfriend right there, she'd do better with us than some corpse." The raider grabbed his arm and tried yanking him and Alma down the tracks. He stood firm with Alma bent over and hacking, holding his hand with an iron grip. The raider sneered at him. "I didn't say ya had a choice, dipshit. Either the both of ya come with me and live to see another fuckin' day, or I leave you two here with the behemoth, who is, by the way, waking up as we speak."

"Charon..." Alma slowly stood up from her coughing fit, the back of her hand wiping her mouth. "Who saved... us?"

"Nobody." He stared hard at the raider, who gave him an ugly look back.

"Give me Alma, you dumbshit," to hear his smoothskin's name come from the lips of a raider made him jump. What did she say? "The last thing she needs is some zombie tailing her like a fucking puppy." The raider lurched forward and snagged a claw into Alma's wrist. His ears must have been deceiving him; how would a raider know who- A rumbling sounded behind them. The behemoth. With a glare of disdain, the raider let go of Alma's shocked and confused frame and motioned for them to follow her. Everything inside him yelled at him to stay, turn and find another way away from the beast. The raider wanted to drag them straight to hell. He didn't know what to do.

But his smoothskin did. She nodded at him solemnly, and pulled on his hand. He wanted to scream at her for what she was making them do. But he had no choice.

They ran and ran, following the raider, and leaving the monstrous, infuriated mutant in their wake.


End file.
